


I’ll Give You Everything You Need (You’ve Given Me Everything I Want)

by nickelsandcoats



Series: Sons of the Morrighan [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Magical Realism, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:12:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 64,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's never given his feathers to anyone before, but one person wins him over without even trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For flying_dreamz's prompt [here](http://nickelsandcoats.livejournal.com/122267.html) at my shuffle meme post. She asked for #103, which was, for this part, "Arwen's Fate" from _The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers Complete Recordings_ by Howard Shore.
> 
>  
> 
> This is a sequel to [Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/229518/chapters/350483). You really should read that one first before you read this story or this story will not make any sense. One last note: this story is set pre-Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You) and will eventually end up post-Reichenbach. Expect lots of angst.
> 
> \----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Until Sherlock’s near-fatal overdose almost four years into their acquaintance, Gregory Lestrade only ever had occasion to meet Sherlock’s brother in person twice. 

The first time was after Sherlock’s first “case,” wherein he had shown up, obviously high, fired off several suspicious sounding (at the time, when no one knew what Sherlock Holmes could do) deductions about the murder case that only the murderer could haven known. Lestrade had promptly arrested the young man on suspicion of murder and was in the process of leaving his interview with Sherlock (whose hands, with their long, delicate fingers, were twitching endlessly, as if he was craving a fag, a pen, something to keep his hands occupied) when he walked straight into a wall covered in fine wool named Mycroft Holmes.

“Sorry, who?” Lestrade asked.

The tall man smiled thinly. “Mycroft Holmes, Inspector. I believe you are currently interrogating my younger brother, whom you consider, quite wrongly, to be the prime suspect in the Swigart case.”

“How did you know about that case? It just happened!”

“Inspector, I will tell you you have it all wrong. My brother has given you the key to the case, but that key is not him, but what he has told you. May I suggest you follow the leads he’s given you?”

The man, with an umbrella dangling from one elbow, politely sidestepped Lestrade and rested his hand on the doorknob of the room in which his younger brother waited. “Oh, and Inspector?” he said, not even looking over his shoulder, “I believe you’ll find the paperwork for my brother’s immediate release on your desk. Good day.”

The knob turned and the man stepped into the tiny room. Lestrade gaped like a landed fish for a few moments before he remembered himself and reached for the doorknob. A cool female voice floated out of the shadows to his left and said, “Your desk, Inspector. The paperwork?”

“Sod the paperwork! Who the hell are you? Who the hell is he?”

The woman stepped forward and gave him a smirk before she glanced back down at her mobile. “He is not someone you want to cross, Inspector.”

“Lestrade!” That would be the DCI, bellowing across the floor at him. Again.

“Sir?” As tempted as he was to shout back, Lestrade waited until he was in front of his superior’s desk before addressing his boss with a raised eyebrow.

“Why am I getting calls from the Home Office asking when a Sherlock Holmes, who they proclaim is innocent of the murder charge you’re pinning on him, will be released? They’re asking for the paperwork.”

Lestrade groaned softly. “I’ll get right on it, sir.” He spun on his heel and stalked over to his desk, where, in pride of place, was the small stack of papers, already filled out, that would free Sherlock Holmes. All they needed was his signature, which he provided after a moment of biting his lip.

 _Hell with it,_ he thought as he scrawled his name on the forms. _If they’re wrong and I’m right then at least I’ll have something to hang over them later._ As soon as his pen left the paper, the woman with the mobile was back again, smoothly gathering the pile of forms up and tucking them into a file folder that she made appear from nowhere. 

“Thank you, Inspector,” she said as she closed the folder and met his eyes for the first time. “And you’re wrong, I’m afraid.” Smirk firmly in place, she walked away, pausing five steps later to throw over her shoulder, “Mr Holmes will be in touch soon.”

She was already in the elevator before Lestrade realised she hadn’t said which Holmes she meant.

 

Forty-five minutes later, his mobile buzzed with a new text from an unknown number.

_I would appreciate it if you would indulge my brother’s whims and allow him to assist you on cases that, as he puts it, are apparently enough to stump you and your team. You would not have to pay him; I will take care of that in exchange for your overlooking his unorthodox methods. He has agreed to get clean in order to undertake this venture._

_⎯MH_

Lestrade huffed a disbelieving laugh. _Christ, the toff uses proper punctuation in his bloody texts,_ he thought as he laboriously typed a response. Before he got out more than a few words, the mobile buzzed again.

_Your assistance in this matter would be greatly appreciated.  
⎯MH_

_Fine but the minute he shows up high again at a crime scene the deals off  
GL_

_Done. My thanks, Inspector.  
⎯MH_

 

And after that, their only communication for three years was through texts. On occasion, the woman who had taken the forms from him (Anthea, he learned after the fourth or fifth visit,) would drop off a folder or two for him, but there was no face-to-face contact with Mycroft at all.

Or it seemed that way, anyway. Every once in a while, and then more and more frequently, Lestrade would notice a CCTV camera _following_ him, or he would see a black car hovering just at the corner of his vision. At first, it spooked him a bit, but then Mycroft’s texts began detailing what he was wearing, or what he had just had for lunch, and instead of feeling watched, Lestrade felt…protected. Guarded. 

Mycroft’s surveillance came in handy one cool October night when Lestrade had been tailing a suspect on his own and had been stabbed in an alley. Sirens were blaring far sooner than they should’ve given the time Lestrade placed the call for assistance, and when he saw the CCTV camera (perched like a bird in the corner of the alley where Lestrade slumped as he put pressure on the nasty cut in his side) light blink once, he nodded back and hid his smile.

What Lestrade didn’t see was the raven that followed his ambulance and then sat outside his window all night long in a silent vigil.

When he was released from hospital with stitches and enough gauze padding to choke a mummy, he went straight home, intent on collapsing into his bed and not moving for a few days. He stumbled in through the door, tugging his coat off carefully, wincing a bit as he twisted and tugged on the stitches. He made it into his bedroom and collapsed more than sat on the bed to kick off his shoes, socks, trousers, shirt, and watch before he carefully lowered himself down and sighed a little in relief. The bag containing his medication was dropped on his bedside cabinet. He set an alarm to wake up to take his painkillers and then dropped off into deep, dreamless sleep.

The alarm went off three hours later and Lestrade groaned wholeheartedly before he remembered that all he had to do was take his meds and then he could go back to sleep⎯there was no need to get all the way up and go in to work. He half sat and groped for the bag, fumbling it open and tipping out the bottle. It took him a moment to twist off the stubborn cap and tap out two pills into his palm. Screwing the cap back on, he went to sit the bottle back on the cabinet when something caught his eye. Hand frozen in midair, Lestrade stared at the long black feather that was resting innocuously next to the now-empty bag. That feather had not been there when he’d fallen asleep. His first reaction was to snatch it up and toss it in the bin, but something deep in his guts stayed his hand. Instead of brushing it off on to the floor, he carefully sat the bottle down and then reached one finger out and gave the feather a tentative brush along its edges. The barbs were smooth and almost cool to the touch. He picked it up and laid back down, carefully examining the feather from every angle, looking for a clue. Finding none, and fighting off sleep, he sat it back on the cabinet before sleep overcame him again. _keep it safe,_ his inner voice whispered, and so he did.

Mycroft, who had watched with bated breath this entire tableau from the grate outside the window, let out a soft trill. He waited until Gregory’s eyes closed and his chest rose slowly and evenly before he took flight. The surveillance team would keep an eye on Gregory for now; Mycroft had a vital meeting with the Prime Minister to attend.

When Mycroft changed back just outside 10 Downing Street, his mobile chimed.

_Losing feathers, brother mine?  
⎯SH_

Mycroft’s mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a smile.

_And where are your two you’ve lost, dear brother?  
⎯MH_

He slipped the mobile into his jacket pocket and slipped in through Downing Street’s side entrance. Perhaps Gregory would like a quiet night out after all he’d been through in the past two days. Now, how to invite him without it seeming like he was abducting the man? Subtlety in getting what he wanted when it came to his personal life was not something Mycroft excelled in, and it often showed when he had been younger and less restrained. But now, now he could wait⎯he had learned from his brother the virtue of patience after seeing Sherlock become its exact antithesis. Even still, he had to be careful with his approach⎯Gregory was like a starling: easily spooked by care and compassion. To make it even more complicated, Gregory had no idea Mycroft was interested in him. In fact, Mycroft himself was not sure why his interest, which had lain dormant for so many years, was piqued by a greying Detective Inspector. He would have to plan his way forward with all the precision of a tricky negotiation between two perpetually warring countries. Fortunately, bringing those negotiations to fruition was his job⎯and he was very, very good at it. He smiled brightly as the Prime Minister rose from his chair. Yes, this would be worth the wait, he thought as he greeted the other man.

 

An hour later, he was getting into his car when Anthea sent him a text:

_He kept the feather. It’s on top of the bureau.  
⎯A_

Mycroft smiled again. _Yes, he is definitely worth the wait._


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft saw Sherlock a few weeks later when his younger brother flew in through the open window of his study. Sherlock’s feathers were bedraggled and he looked far too thin, even in his true form. Mycroft nodded over to the fire, which he had set not too long before, and Sherlock flew over to it, allowing himself to preen in the warmth for a moment before he stepped back and changed. Mycroft’s eyes wandered over his brother’s thin frame, taking in the uncombed curls and nearly threadbare clothes.

“I do wish you’d allow us to help you, Sherlock.”

“I don’t need help,” Sherlock snarled, flinging himself down on the sofa, surreptitiously stretching his feet towards the fire.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Your heat’s been shut off again, and you’ve not eaten a proper meal in four days, no, five. The landlord is threatening to evict you, and you’ve not the means to pay your rent. Does that cover it?”

Sherlock turned to look at him then, eyes empty and haunted. “You missed the drugs,” he said with a shadow of his usual sneer.

The air seemed to be sucked from the room as Mycroft struggled to find a response to that. _You quit!_ his mind howled, sounding suspiciously like his five-year-old self. _You promised Mummy and me that you had quit and you’d never touch them again and you lied!_ He took a deep breath and forced all of those thoughts back down, refusing to give them voice. “How long?”

“A few weeks.”

“The usual?”

“Mmm.” 

And now that Mycroft was looking, he could see the telltale tremors in Sherlock’s hands, the shadows under his cheekbones, the twitching of his limbs as the loss of insulating body fat made him leak heat rather than keep it inside himself. Mycroft rose to his feet, alarmed, hissing a bit as he forgot himself. “Sherlock⎯”

“Don’t.” Sherlock’s look was forbidding, and Mycroft actually took a step back at the intensity of it.

“Does Mummy know?”

“I don’t care if she does or doesn’t.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply. Sherlock’s eyes had gone nearly black, even though the room was adequately lit. “Surely you know she does care.”

“There are dreams, Mycroft. They went away for a while, but now they’re back.”

Sinking into the chair opposite the sofa, Mycroft dropped his clasped hands between his knees and waited. When Sherlock seemed lost in his own head, he tried to pull him out again with a gentle, “What do you dream of?”

“There’s sand and blood, so much blood, and pain and the darkest night with so many stars. And at the center of it all, there’s a feeling that I’ve lost something, something precious and dear and that I’ll never get it back and without it, I’m nothing and never will be anything again. And when I manage to wake up, I feel so empty. I can’t bear the thought of sleeping because I know I’ll dream again. I can’t stand knowing that one of my feathers is lost and I’ll never find it again. I keep feeling like I’ll lose another, too, and the mere thought of having this feeling doubled drives me insane. The drugs keep me awake, and when I crash, I sleep without dreams.”

Mycroft looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the tears that threatened to spill. Sherlock glared at him and dashed the drops of water away before he stood, looming over his brother. “Don’t give me your pity, Mycroft, or your money I have no need of your help, and I certainly don’t need Mother’s. I don’t know how much longer I would be here anyway to benefit from either.”

Sherlock changed and was gone before Mycroft, stunned, could even finish processing what his brother had just told him. He dropped his head into his hands and sighed deeply; rubbing at his temples in a vain effort to stave off the inevitable headache he could feel brewing. He called for Mummy, and while he waited for her to answer, texted Lestrade.

_Inspector, do keep an eye on Sherlock for me. I do worry about him, especially now.  
⎯MH_

It took ten minutes for a response to come:

_Will do. Any reason in particular?  
⎯GL_

Before he could respond, Mummy called for him (and one does not ignore the Morrighan’s call), and he left to answer her, leaving his mobile on his desk. 

 

“I know about Sherlock,” were her first words when Mycroft alighted on her palm, nuzzling once into her finger. He fluttered up and changed, eyes concerned, as she finished, “and there is nothing we can do to interfere.”

“Mummy, he said⎯”

“I know what he said, darling. And I know of what he dreams.” She reached out and cupped one hand to Mycroft’s cheek. “And everything will be fine.”

Mycroft frowned.

The Morrighan smiled at him sadly. “It will be a hard road for him, child. But you can’t keep him from experiencing it, no matter how much you or your Inspector watch over him.” 

“He’s not my Inspector, Mummy,” Mycroft said, cursing the blush he knew was rising on his cheeks.

She outright grinned at that, and exclaimed, “You asked me to give him protection, and I gave him one of your feathers. I think that makes him count as yours, even if your heart isn’t quite ready to call him so just yet.”

Now his cheeks were on fire. “I hoped you had given him one of mine, but I wasn’t sure…”

“Sure about what?”

“If you had given him the other one of Sherlock’s. The one I know you still have.”

“Ah, child, that feather is meant for someone else. I gave your Inspector yours, as it should be. You are the one who asked for his protection, after all. Now tell me, why haven’t you spoken to him in person for such a long while?”

“Mummy…” Mycroft fidgeted, squirming under his mother’s slightly disapproving gaze. He was shy, and relationships that weren’t between employer and employee were difficult for him to navigate even before Gregory came to his attention. Mycroft had, just a few short weeks ago, been agonising over how to invite the man out to dinner without it sounding like an order, and in a fit of despair, had given up on the idea after every scenario he’d planned out seemed too overbearing. In his youth, Mycroft had destroyed every relationship he’d ever managed to start with the sheer force of his personality and his need to know everything about a person, down to their soul, a trait he shared to a lesser extent with Sherlock and a greater extent with their mother, who could see through a person’s soul in an instant. He knew Gregory was worth waiting for, but how long would he wait before he said or did something that broke down their relationship in an irreparable way? Better to leave it be, he had thought, and do or say nothing more, no matter the cost to himself. And so he had.

“Oh, child,” his mother sighed, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “I do so hope that one day you will see you deserve to be happy.”

Mycroft closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, he was alone. He flew home with a heavy heart and hid his mobile lest he send Gregory a text that would scare him off for good.

 

Five weeks passed by without a single text from Mycroft. Lestrade still saw the CCTV cameras following him, but the cars were no longer there. He shrugged it off as Mycroft simply being busy at first, and resolved to text him in a few days just to check up on the man. But then all thoughts of texting anyone who wasn’t directly on his team went out the window as CID got bogged down in crime after crime after murder after murder. The work was neverending, and there was some instinct that led Lestrade to believe that this rash of crimes was all connected, but he couldn’t put his finger on how or by whom.

He needed Sherlock, who, Lestrade realised guiltily, he had not checked on in a few weeks. 

Donovan had just got another call⎯another murder, same MO, same everything as the last few, and he pulled her aside as they headed down to get in their car.

“I’m bringing him in, Sally.”

She rolled her eyes and huffed an indignant, “Whatever you feel best, sir,” in her most sarcastic tone. 

“We need to stop this bastard, and he’s our best chance.”

“He is an addict and dangerous at best! You don’t know what he’s capable of!”

“I know he’s capable of finding who’s doing this, and that’s what I care about right now. We’re going to get him first, and then take him to the scene. Got it?”

She buckled her seat belt viciously. “Yes, sir.”

 

Sally stayed in the car while Lestrade jumped out and pounded on the door until someone let him in, eyes widening at the badge he flashed as the door opened. 

“Cheers,” Lestrade said as he bounded up the dingy steps and pounded on Sherlock’s door. “Sherlock! It’s Lestrade⎯got a weird one for you. Want you to come take a look.”

He waited a moment and knocked again. “Open up, would you? We’ve not got all day.”

Lestrade put his hand on the knob, and to his surprise, it turned. Warily, he opened the door, flicking on his torch when the light switch failed to produce any light. “Sherlock?” he called into the darkness, cautiously making his way through the cluttered flat.  
No response.

“Sherlock?”

The beam of the torch caught on something shiny, and Lestrade’s breath caught as he realised it was a needle, dropped next to Sherlock’s outstretched hand. Sherlock, who was slumped unconscious against the wall, head tipped down his chest, which was barely moving.

“Shit!” Lestrade nearly tripped over a stack of books as he raced over and dropped painfully to his knees, pressing two fingers to Sherlock’s throat. A wave of relief washed over him as the faint pulse registered under his touch. He fumbled out his mobile as he shrugged off his jacket. Sherlock was shivering faintly, skin cold, lips almost blue; Lestrade slung his jacket over him as he dialled 999 and summoned an ambulance to the squalid little flat.

The next call he made, as the paramedics loaded Sherlock onto a gurney, was to Mycroft.

“What’s happened?” Mycroft snapped out before Lestrade could even form a greeting.

“It’s Sherlock, he overdosed. Paramedics have him all set⎯he’s heading to Bart’s.”

There was a muffled curse and a crash as Mycroft stood. “Is he…”

“He’s alive,” Lestrade said quickly, “but barely. It’s a good thing I came by when I did⎯he wouldn’t have made it otherwise.”

“Thank you, Inspector. I’ll be there presently.”

There was a click and then the tone of a disconnected call. Lestrade thumbed the power button on his mobile and clattered back down the stairs. Sally was leaning against the car, waiting on him. 

“Change of plans,” he barked as he threw open his door. “Drop me off at Barts⎯you’ll go on to the scene after.”

She looked him over carefully as she pulled out into traffic. “Sir?”

“I need to stay with him,” Lestrade heard himself say, but he didn’t know which “him” he meant. 

The rest of their ride passed in silence. Sally dropped him off outside Bart’s A&E and he ran in, looking around for a man in a three-piece suit.

What he saw stopped him in his tracks. Mycroft Holmes, who Lestrade thought of as being unflappable, was slumped in a chair, face buried in his hands. Lestrade crossed over to him and hesitated for a moment before dropping into the hard plastic chair next to him. If he let his leg press against Mycroft’s and if Mycroft’s pressed against his, neither of them acknowledged it as they settled in to wait to hear if Sherlock had gone over the edge for good this time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this part is "The Shire" from _The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring Complete Recordings_ by Howard Shore.

The night in the hospital, leg still pressed against Mycroft’s, was one of the longest to date in Lestrade’s life. When the doctor had finally come out and spoken to Mycroft, Lestrade craned around the pillar blocking the pair from sight and watched, biting his lip, until he saw Mycroft’s shoulders slump slightly with relief. He let out his breath in quiet thanks to whatever deity might be listening and settled back in his chair.

The next thing he knew, Mycroft was shaking his shoulder gently. “Inspector,” he said quietly as Lestrade blinked and peered up at him. “Thank you for staying. Sherlock is fine, or as fine as possible given the circumstances. He will be…unavailable for a while, perhaps a few months. I’m sending him to a facility for rehabilitation. I’d threatened it before, but Mummy and Sherlock both said it was unnecessary. I believe differently.”

And he did. The argument the three of them had when Mycroft suggested rehab the first time caused both his mother and his brother not to speak to him for weeks, and Mycroft knew then what true loneliness felt like. He never wanted to feel that again, but he did not want to risk his brother slipping away before his time. He would deal with their anger later; for now, Sherlock’s well-being needed more help than Mummy could provide. 

“It’s Greg.” Lestrade said suddenly. “Well, Gregory, but everyone calls me Greg. I’m sure you knew that already, what with the inch-thick file I’m sure you’ve got on me. But, still.”

Mycroft was watching him with a little frown forming between his eyebrows. 

“I just thought it was a bit silly for you to keep calling me by my title. So, Greg. Or Gregory. Or even Lestrade. But you don’t need to keep calling me Inspector.”

Now Mycroft turned his head slightly and looked at Lestrade with a bit of a twinkle in his eye. “Your file is actually two inches. And Mycroft, please.”

Lestrade felt a bit absurd, but he held his hand out for a shake, standing as he did. Mycroft took it and shook it firmly, but held on for a moment longer and met Lestrade’s eye, expression soft. “Thank you, Gregory, for all you’ve done this evening. I fear that if you’d not been there, we would be having a very different conversation right now.” He released Gregory’s hand and stepped back, resisting the sudden irrational urge to step forward and crush the man in his arms. 

Greg smiled at him and said, “I was just doing my job, Mr. Ho⎯Mycroft.”

“Ah, but you would not have stayed for just anyone, would you?”

Greg frowned at him a bit as Mycroft hummed in response and turned away, calling back over his shoulder, “I’ll be in touch, Gregory.”

“I look forward to it,” Greg murmured, an inexplicable grin flickering across his face as he picked up his coat, shrugging it on as he left.

 

It was five weeks before Greg heard from Mycroft again.

_I do apologise for the lack of communication. Work has kept me busy and out of the country. I hope I’ve not caused any undue alarm.  
⎯MH_

Greg was at a crime scene (murder: victim missing both feet and left thumb; team stumped) when the text arrived. He thumbed open the reply screen and typed

_Could use your brother right now. Got a weird one.  
GL_

Then he realised how callous that sounded and opened a new text.

_Sorry bad case. I didn’t want to bother you know your work keeps you away. How is Sherlock by the way  
GL_

His phone chimed twice in rapid succession. Sally looked over at him. “If that’s the Freak,” she said, “I’ll seriously consider quitting. No one can know about this murder already⎯we just found out about it ourselves.”

“It’s not Sherlock,” Greg said absently as he wandered back towards the car, tossing a casual “keep on looking, then,” over his shoulder. 

He opened the texts and read

_Have you checked the landlord’s dumpster?  
⎯MH_

Greg swore and shouted at Sally to look in the dumpster to the south of the building. He waited until she had disappeared before looking at the other text.

_It’s quite all right; I am just at fault for not being in touch sooner. Sherlock is doing well⎯he should be released in two weeks.  
⎯MH_

_Would you like to get a coffee?  
GL_

He pressed ‘send’ before he allowed himself to think twice about the invitation. Truth be told, Gregory Lestrade had not asked anyone out on a date _DATE? his mind shrieked at him_ in years. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of Mycroft’s thigh pressed against his as they had waited in the hospital, the gratitude in Mycroft’s eyes when he thanked him for staying, even though they’d not spoken a word during that long wait, and it had drove him mad not to hear from Mycroft after. However, Greg was well aware, from Sherlock’s veiled comments, that Mycroft’s job was a tricky one that kept him away for weeks on end, and he had been afraid to disturb him. He wanted to get to know this man who had saved his life (Greg hadn’t forgot the night he was stabbed and Mycroft had sent help) and who hid behind his job as a way to avoid making contact with people. Greg knew he did the latter himself, and he was eager to break the habit. He was…lonely, and wanted to reach out, and he chose Mycroft. Even if they were only acquaintances, connected by a mad genius named Sherlock Holmes, Greg found himself interested in the elder Holmes who kept himself at arms’ length.

But at the same time, he couldn’t believe he’d just blurted out an invitation like that over text. For God’s sake, he knew Mycroft well enough that he knew an invitation sent on the finest cardstock would have been more appropriate.

The mobile chimed. Heart in his throat, then in his shoes, Greg opened it and breathed in again.

_I would be delighted. This afternoon at 2? I have a meeting I must attend now, or I would suggest earlier.  
⎯MH_

_Two works. Where would you like to meet?  
GL_

_Would you allow me to choose? I’ll send a car for you.  
⎯MH_

Greg grinned and started to type a cheeky response when a new text appeared.

_Unless, of course, you had a place already selected.  
⎯MH_

_Not at all. Look forward to the surprise.  
GL_

He grinned again and may have skipped a step as he headed back to his team, who were now surrounding the dumpster Mycroft had indicated. “What have you found” he asked as he got stuck back in. 

An hour later, they were back at the Yard and Greg started on the mountain of paperwork he had to finish while Sally and Anderson catalogued the evidence from the scene. He was a bit muddy and frankly, a bit smelly what with the digging in the skip and all, but he had an office with a door and no one came to bother him as he dug in and started writing. 

Some time later, he heard a throat clear and glanced up, and then did a double take at Anthea, polished and perfect as always, standing in front of him. When he looked at her, she sent a pointed glance to the clock and then another at his less than clean suit. 

“Shit!” he swore when he saw the time. He’d worked straight through lunch and missed his chance to run home and change before his date _date!_ with Mycroft. Anthea raised one brow at him as he stood quickly enough to rock his chair. “I know we’ve only got twenty minutes ‘til it’s time to be there, but I have to change.” He shot her a pleading look as he snatched his coat off its hook. 

She smiled at him and said, “Of course. I’ll tell Mr. Holmes we may be a few minutes late. I’ll have the driver take you home.”

“ _Thank_ you,” he breathed as he followed her downstairs.

“But you’re sitting in the back on the way there,” she added with a glance at his muddy trousers.

 

Twenty-five minutes later (there had been a suspicious lack of red lights on the way to his flat and then the coffee place), he was getting out of the car, Anthea’s slightly sarcastic “Enjoy,” barely heard as he wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers. _Buck up,_ he admonished himself, _you’ve faced down murderers; a civil servant is nothing._ He opened the door and strode in, hoping his loudly beating heart couldn’t be heard across the shop. 

Mycroft was seated at a corner table, and when he looked up and met Greg’s eyes, a heartbreaking smile broke across his face. Greg’s steps faltered for just a moment as the implication of that smile broadsided him, and then he felt a smile he couldn’t remember smiling before in his life pull at his lips, and he thought, _Oh, I am in it now_ and his heart, inexplicably, beat even faster as he crossed the café and pulled out his chair, shaking hands with Mycroft. He let his hand grip a little longer than strictly necessary, an echo of Mycroft’s actions in the hospital, and saw Mycroft’s cheeks flush a bit before he released Mycroft’s hand and sat down.

 

In the days that followed, Greg would be hard pressed to remember exactly what they said over their two hour long coffee date. He only knew that he had never laughed so much in years, and that he liked the sound of Mycroft’s soft chuckle and wanted to hear it more often. They made tentative plans for dinner in a few days’ time, and promised to keep in touch (“And I will do better at that, Gregory,” Mycroft had said) and then went their separate ways. 

Mycroft had texted him today just as he was walking out of an interview with a witness to the murder he’d been investigating the day of their coffee date.

_Dinner tonight? I know it’s a bit soon, but I was hoping to see you tonight. Of course, I don’t want to interrupt any plans you may have.  
⎯MH_

_I can cancel my date with bad telly and beer. What time?  
GL_

_I’ll send a car. 6.30?  
⎯MH_

Greg chuckled a bit. 

_Great. You don’t have to keep sending a car I do have one you know  
GL_

_It’s no trouble to send one. I feel much better knowing you’re in one of my cars as they’re quite a bit safer than yours.  
⎯MH_

_Glad to know you care about my safety ;)  
GL_

_I care about more than that, Gregory. Allow me my idiosyncrasies.  
⎯MH_

Greg flushed and sent back:

_Sorry. It’s not a problem and I’m flattered.  
GL_

_I’m glad. And there’s no need to apologise.  
⎯MH_

Just as Greg started to reply, he saw the flash of headlights out the window and clattered downstairs, flinging open his door and barely remembering to lock it before he opened the car door and settled back into the leather seats.

Fifteen minutes later, the car stopped outside a small restaurant on Northumberland Street. Greg stepped out and tugged his gloves off as he opened the door to Angelo’s and looked around for Mycroft, who was already seated and watching every move he made as he made his way across the crowded restaurant and sat down, entranced by the patterns the candlelight made on Mycroft’s face.   
  


*****

4,500 miles away, John Watson jumped off the ramp to the plane that had just landed in Helmand province. It was the start of his second tour of Afghanistan, and he had just returned from a long, fraught leave in London with Harry. He took a deep breath and smelled the tang of petrol, the sharp tang of sweat, and the dry dusty smell of the sand. John shouldered one of his bags and jogged towards the camp, the other bag with his medical kit slapping his thigh.

“All right, Watson?” Bill Murray called out as John got close enough to slap his free hand on Murray’s shoulder.

“All right, Murray.” He looked around once, squinting up at the sky before grinning back at Bill. “I’ve brought you those biscuits you like.”

Bill’s face lit up and he jokingly grabbed for John’s pack, laughing brightly as John shouldered him good-naturedly aside. Just before they walked into camp proper, John caught a flash of black out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look, there was nothing there. He frowned, but shrugged it off and jogged after Bill, who was giving him a rundown of the major events since he’d left on leave.

If John had been able to see her, he would have seen the largest, blackest raven he would ever had seen. The Morrighan herself had come to see him off on his last tour, but he would only ever truly see her for an instant months later when he was bleeding out in the sand.

 

In his room at the clinic just outside London, Sherlock awoke with a start, the last vestige of his dream chasing across his subconscious as an impression of sand, blue eyes, blond hair, and strong, capable hands flashed once more in his vision before disappearing in a swirl of black which coalesced into a single black feather which faded as he stared at his ceiling, waiting for the dawn.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For flying_dreamz's prompt [here](http://nickelsandcoats.livejournal.com/122267.html) at my shuffle meme post. She asked for #103, which was, for this part, "The Woman" from the _Sherlock: Season 2_ soundtrack by David Arnold and Michael Price.

Sherlock dropped his duffel bag and looked around the small flat with only the smallest of sneers. Mycroft had chosen the flat for him while Sherlock had been stuck in that horrid rehabilitation facility (he was _dying_ to know how Mother had reacted to Mycroft bunging him in there against his will and her wishes), and it wouldn’t do to show his pleasure that his brother had managed to find him a perfectly nice flat after all. 

Mycroft always did have a sentimental streak a mile wide.

“I thought this would suffice, for now,” Mycroft drawled behind him. “I’ve taken the liberty of paying your rent for the next six months, and I’ve released some funds for you to pay your bills for that same duration. Do try not to spend every last pence on materials for your little….experiments. Food is vital, too, dear brother.”

Sherlock looked at him over his shoulder. Unable to actually thank his brother for his thoughtfulness, he merely grunted in response and bent to unpack his duffel, pulling out the violin that had been the bane and the boon of the facility’s staff depending on what mood Sherlock was in when he played, and setting it reverently on the small green sofa. He opened the case and carefully withdrew the bow, rosined it and then settled the violin on his shoulder, drawing out the first note of his favourite of Mendelssohn’s concertos. He lost himself in the music; the last he heard of Mycroft was his humming the harmony as he left the flat. Sherlock moved to the window and watched his brother swing the umbrella he always carried in time with his humming as he opened the door to the car waiting patiently at the kerb. 

 

Four days later, Lestrade rang Sherlock, and in a rush of words Sherlock had to parse through, asked him to come round to Camden to look at a headless, fingerless, footless corpse. 

Sherlock arrived on the scene and was greeted with a sneer from Sally Donovan and a cold shoulder from Anderson. He ignored both of them in turn and crouched down next to the body, peering at the wounds left from the dismembered fingers. Sharp knife, strong assailant, over six feet tall, male, worked as a butcher judging by the precision of the cuts. He rattled this off to Lestrade, who…wasn’t listening. This was new. Lestrade was talking quietly to someone on his mobile, back turned to the scene, shoulders hunched, a desire for privacy.

So of course Sherlock crept closer to eavesdrop.

“No, of course. I understand.” Pause. A sigh. “I’ll be there when I can. Hopefully in an hour⎯he’s here so I can fob some of this off on to my DS. See you then.” Lestrade rung off and turned, barely suppressing a shout when he saw Sherlock standing less than two feet away.

“Who was that?” Sherlock asked sharply.

“No one. None of your business, anyhow.”

An arched brow.

“Oh, sod off. I do have a life outside of work, unlike some.” 

Sherlock drew himself up and stated his deductions clearly and precisely, and then stared down his nose at Lestrade. “I do hope my assistance will allow you to keep your dinner date,” he intoned with as much sarcasm as he could muster. “Seeing as how you wouldn’t have a life outside of work if it weren’t for me.”

“Sherlock⎯” Lestrade had the grace to look abashed, but Sherlock would have none of it. He spun on his heel and strode away from the scene, leaving Lestrade to shout for Sally to start combing their databases for men matching the description Sherlock provided. Lestrade went after Sherlock, who had turned the corner, to apologise, but by the time he turned the corner himself, there was no trace of the other man. Lestrade stopped and slumped a bit against the dirty brick wall, rubbing his hands over his face and heaving a sigh. If he would have looked up, he might have seen two ravens, one with feathers darker than the deepest black of night, and one with eyes the same strange blue-grey as Sherlock’s.

 

Lestrade arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes before his promised hour. Mycroft had just settled into his seat when Lestrade arrived, looking slightly distraught.

“What is it?” Mycroft asked, leaning forward and, without thought, catching Gregory’s hand in his. 

Gregory stiffened, and Mycroft, immediately realising the source of his distress, let go. That was the first time they had deliberately touched each other since the night of Sherlock’s overdose. But Mycroft’s hand was almost instantly caught back up in Gregory’s, and here he was, asking silently through every line of his body, if this was okay. Mycroft smiled and turned his hand so he could link his fingers through Gregory’s and stroke the back of his hand with his thumb. A little bit of the tension leeched from the detective’s body, and Gregory gave him a small smile in thanks.

“I think I’ve upset your brother,” he said after a long moment of staring at their interlocked hands. 

“Whatever did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything⎯he took my comment out of context, as usual.”

Mycroft hmmmed and tapped the back of Gregory’s hand with his index finger. 

“He heard me on the phone with you, and I told him I had a life outside of work, unlike some. He then spouted off his deductions, told me I was lucky to have him as if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have a life outside of work, and then he stalked off.”

“Sherlock doesn’t always understand that comments do not necessarily apply to him. He assumed you were demeaning his dedication and took offence, even though I am sure you didn’t mean it that way. He has never been able to joke around or discern when someone is joking.”

“I know. I was frustrated and wanted to get here and not keep you waiting,” his cheeks heated in a blush, “and so I got snippy.” He paused. “But here’s the weird thing, yeah? I went after to him to apologise, and I should’ve been able to see him after he turned the corner⎯it wasn’t long enough for him to have got far⎯but he had vanished. Completely. I have no idea where the sod got to in less than a minute.”

Mycroft frowned a bit, and then joked, “Maybe he flew away,” and forced a laugh that sounded horribly fake to his ears, but Gregory seemed not to notice.

“Maybe,” he chuckled as the waiter approached with their drinks.

 

They were sipping the last of their wine slowly, feet brushing shyly under the table, when Mycroft blurted, “Would you come back to mine?”

Gregory’s eyes widened in shock.

“For a drink,” he added hastily. “I find that I don’t want our evening to end quite yet.” He could feel his cheeks heating and prepared himself for the inevitable rejection that would come. It had taken months for them to even touch, and the first time they do, he acted like a lovestruck idiot and invited the man back to his house! Mycroft had not been this rash in years, and now he knew why.

Gregory’s smile was heartbreaking. “I’d love to,” he said. 

Mycroft only just stopped himself from asking “Really?” and instead smiled back. 

“But I’ll have to take a cab⎯I left my car at my place.”

“Nonsense. My driver can take us.”

Twenty minutes later, Mycroft was opening his front door and trying not to feel too self-conscious at the size of his house. Surely Gregory would not be intimidated by it, but it was quite posh, _too posh_ he thought with a wince as he turned on the hall light and saw the interior through Gregory’s eyes. 

Gregory let out an appreciative whistle. “Nice place,” he said, “It suits you.” 

“Thank you. I can give you a tour if you’d like.”

The smile he got was a bit wicked. “Some other time.”

Mycroft’s stomach dropped a bit and then filled itself with a fluttery feeling as the insinuation sunk in. “Gregory, I think you should know that while I would quite like to, well, move forward, I don’t think I am quite ready⎯”

Gregory cut him off with a squeeze of his hand and an understanding grin. “I want to move forward too, but I agree, tonight’s not the time. We’ve got plenty of it, and I don’t want to rush this or you. Agreed?”

Mycroft felt tension he didn’t know he had been carrying bleed away as he nodded. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. Now, I think you mentioned drinks?”

Mycroft pulled on his hand and led him down the hall to the kitchen, where he reluctantly dropped Gregory’s hand to pull down two wineglasses, open a bottle of red, and pour. Gregory took the bottle and gestured for Mycroft to lead the way.

He settled them in his sitting room, setting the glasses on a small side table by the sofa before turning to set a fire in the fireplace. Gregory set the bottle on the coffee table and admired the paintings as Mycroft stacked the wood and lit the match. Soon, the fire was crackling and growing, and Mycroft stood up slowly, heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom. Gregory was stood in front of the sofa, glasses in hand. He handed one to Mycroft, allowing their fingers to brush, and then cleared his throat and raised his glass.

“To moving forward,” he said, without hesitation.

“To moving forward,” Mycroft repeated, touching his glass to Gregory’s. They took a long sip, holding each other’s gaze. 

Mycroft sat down slowly, unwilling to break his gaze, and Gregory followed suit, sitting sideways on the sofa, drawing one leg up so that his knee brushed Mycroft’s thigh. With a cheeky grin, he held his hand palm up on his knee, and Mycroft took the unspoken hint, carefully tracing Gregory’s palm with his index finger. That small action elicited a shiver and darkened pupils, and Mycroft found himself grinning at the knowledge that his touch had produced that reaction. He met Gregory’s eyes, warm and bright, and lost himself in them.

If they tried, the two men might be able to remember what they talked about that night, sitting on Mycroft’s sofa and finishing off the first bottle of wine, and then a second. But what they would best recall would be the feeling of Gregory’s hair under Mycroft’s fingertips, the weight of heads resting on shoulders, the gradual dimness of the room as the fire died out, and the taste of wine on each other’s lips as they shared their first kiss goodnight outside of the guest room door. 

Mycroft pulled away and gently brushed a hand down Gregory’s arm to grasp at his hand. Gregory squeezed back and then leaned up just slightly for another kiss. “Goodnight, then,” he murmured against Mycroft’s lips. 

“Goodnight, Gregory,” Mycroft whispered as he pulled away. 

When he got to the end of the hall, he turned and saw Gregory still stood in the doorway, a faint smile on his lips as he shook himself and then entered the room proper, shutting the door with a quiet click. Mycroft grinned and allowed himself a little skip as he floated back to his room.

 

That same evening, the Morrighan found herself comforting her youngest. She had joined him on the roof and saw the inspector’s reaction to his hurtful words. But Sherlock, as ever, had misunderstood the emotion behind Lestrade’s actions and thought them done in exasperation, not remorse.

And now she was sitting on the edge of her son’s bed, running her hand through his curls just as she had when he had been a child in need of comfort. 

They hadn’t needed words: Sherlock hurt and she soothed without him needing to name the hurts that ran deep in his soul. She knew them and saw them as she had since the day of his birth, and she knew who could cure them.

Hours passed in silence, and finally, just as the stars were emerging in the sky, Sherlock spoke, voice rusty from disuse.

“I am lonely, Mother.”

Her heart cracked at the weight of that admission.

“I know, child. Sleep, and dream well.” 

His eyes slid closed and his breaths deepened and evened out. She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his ear, whispering, “It won’t be long now. Just wait a little longer, and you will be whole again, I swear it.”

 

At her words, whispered thousands of miles away, John Watson awoke with a quiet gasp, chasing the last haunting image of his dream: grey-blue eyes and a single, floating black feather, identical to the one under his pillow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some schmoop before the angst engine starts to rev up. :)

Mycroft awoke the next morning with a start. There were noises in the house⎯strange ones that he wasn’t accustomed to hearing. He sat up slowly, very conscious of his breathing, as he spared a glance at the clock on the wall and nearly gasped. 

Nine o’clock.

He’d not slept that late in years, not since the last time he came down with the ‘flu and had taken an unprecedented ten days off of work to recover. He listened closely, trying to decipher what he was hearing. The clink of mugs, the tap running, humming. Abruptly, his brain caught up⎯- _Gregory._ Gregory, preparing coffee, humming a bit of some song Mycroft had heard blaring from a shop once a few months ago. 

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, eyeing his dressing gown. What was Gregory likely to wear? The guest room had been fully stocked, but perhaps Gregory was in the clothes he’d been wearing last night? Should he dress? Mycroft bit his lip for a moment, worrying it between his teeth. Resolutely, he pulled on his dressing gown, tying the sash firmly. He thrust his feet into his slippers and then opened his door before he could change his mind and put on his armor and make Gregory uncomfortable. 

When he entered the kitchen, he was just in time to see Gregory turn around with a mug in each hand, borrowed dressing gown cinched firmly around him. His silvered hair stuck up in shaggy spikes, his eyes half-lidded and still heavy with the remnants of sleep, and Mycroft had never wanted to kiss anyone more than he did in that moment. 

Mycroft was across the room in a few strides and kissed Gregory fiercely, remembering himself in time to keep his lips closed as he had not brushed his teeth. Gregory tipped his head back and returned the kiss lazily, letting Mycroft control the pace. When Mycroft pulled back a bit, blinking back the daze that settled over him when he had been lost in the feel of Gregory’s lips against his own, Greg smiled up at him, darted in to give him a quick kiss of his own and a rough, “Good morning,” as he handed over one of the mugs. Mycroft took it automatically, raising a brow at the sugar and milk.

Greg scrubbed one hand through his hair, pushing it into further disarray and gave an embarrassed grin. “Ah no, sorry. Didn’t know how you took it, so I let it be.”

Mycroft quirked a grin and carefully added one sugar and a healthy dash of milk. Greg leaned over and murmured, far too close to Mycroft’s ear, “I’ll remember that, then.”

Afraid to breathe, lest he break the spell of expectation that settled over the room, Mycroft asked in a hush “How do you take yours?”

Greg pressed a fleeting kiss to Mycroft’s cheek and replied, “You’ll have to wait and find out,” and backed away to lean against the counter with a cheeky wink.

They both laughed a bit, smiling at each other over the rims of their mugs.

 

The next few months were bliss. They went to dinner every few nights, and Gregory stayed over whenever he could, sleeping in the guest bedroom. Eventually, most of his clothes and other belongings migrated to Mycroft’s guest bedroom, and every time he passed by the door when Gregory wasn’t there, Mycroft would open the door and smile a bit just to see Gregory’s things residing there. 

They hadn’t slept together, not yet. Mycroft was skittish, and Gregory didn’t push.

That’s not to say that things had not been heated and heady between them. On Friday and Saturday nights, when neither of them had to work the next morning, they spent hours on the sofa, alternately snogging like teenagers and running hands up inside shirts (and lately, dipping inside trousers) and leaning against each other, hands linked on thighs, listening to each other breathe.

On those nights, Gregory talked, and Mycroft listened. He learned of Gregory’s childhood spent racing about with a brother and sister whom he rarely saw now. He heard the stories Gregory’s family told around the table at holidays, and laughed at the funny ones, held Gregory close at the sad ones. 

And little by little, Mycroft opened up. He told Gregory of Sherlock’s fervent desire to be a pirate when they had been young (Gregory laughed so hard at Mycroft’s imitation of young Sherlock’s pirate speech that he cried). He spoke fondly of Mummy (but never said who she truly was). He never spoke of his father.

Gregory noticed, of course, and asked him about once, when Mycroft was idly running his hand through Gregory’s hair, making the inspector arch into the touch. “You never speak of your father,” Gregory mumbled, his voice a deep rumble with the pleasure. “What happened?”

Mycroft’s hand stilled. “I never knew my father,” he said softly.

He could feel Gregory tense up under his hand as the man processed those words, putting together the gap in years between he and Sherlock, knowing that Mycroft would have been old enough to remember something of his father, even if he had passed not long after Sherlock’s birth. “It doesn’t matter,” Mycroft said quietly. “It doesn’t bother me, and I honestly don’t think about it. Sherlock never knew him, either,” he added as an afterthought.

Gregory turned in his arms and gathered him close, tightening his arms around him as he pressed gentle kisses to Mycroft’s brow. “I’m sorry,” Gregory murmured.

“What for?” Mycroft tried to twist around so he could see Gregory’s face, deduce what he was apologising for, but he was held fast.

“You must have been lonely. I can’t imagine not having my dad around.”

Mycroft settled back against Gregory’s chest, listening to his breath and his heart thundering in his chest. Lonely? He had not thought of his situation as such⎯after all, he’d had Mummy and Sherlock, and his other brothers and sisters who he flew with. He’d not missed his father at all, and he was not lying when he said that he never knew him. The one time he’d asked Mummy about his father, she had only smiled sadly and told him not to worry over it. He’d not asked again.

No, he’d not been lonely as a child. As an adult, yes, as he’d been unable to become truly close to anyone. Mummy, of course, was always there, but even Sherlock pushed him away as he grew up, and then Mycroft had been left alone. He’d not realised how empty his life was until Gregory Lestrade was forced into it by way of Sherlock. Without thinking, he pressed his ear harder into Gregory’s chest, letting the loud _thumpTHUMP_ of his heart reassure him. No, he was not lonely any longer.

“Thank you,” he breathed into Gregory’s chest. He wasn’t sure Gregory would have heard him, or even understood what he was being thanked for, but Gregory tightened his hold and kissed the top of his head, letting his lips linger there, and Mycroft thought that he was understood.

They must have drifted off at some point, because a loud _pop!_ from a knot bursting in the fireplace as the fire died down startled them both awake.

Gregory sat up a bit straighter and ruffled Mycroft’s hair, speaking through his yawn, “We should put that out, got to bed. It’s late, and I know I’ve been up since half-five today.”

Mycroft gave an uncharacteristic sleepy grumble as his comfortable pillow moved under his cheek. “’ll do it,” he slurred as he sat up and stretched, reluctantly dropping his right foot to the floor and wriggling it a bit to get the blood flowing again. He stood, reluctantly, peeling himself away from Gregory and moved to bank the fire. Gregory sat on the sofa and watched him, expectant, dark eyes glinting in the dim light.

Mycroft felt the weight of his gaze on his back and swallowed thickly. He rose from his crouch and walked back over to the other man, was pulled in by Gregory’s arms, felt the whole length of his body against his as Gregory stood. “Let’s go to bed,” Mycroft breathed, unwilling to break the spell that the heat of Gregory’s body cast over him.

“To sleep?”

Mycroft nodded. 

“I’d like that. I’ve been gathering my courage to ask you that all night,” Gregory said against his throat.

Silently, he took Gregory’s hand and led him down the hall, pausing long enough for him to fetch pyjamas and his dressing gown from the guest room. Gregory emerged from the room with the small bundle tucked under his arm and held his hand out for Mycroft to take. Mycroft took it and then tucked it in the crook of his elbow, leading the way to his own bedroom.

Mycroft changed first, ducking into the ensuite. He caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink and let out a rueful sigh. He’d not had anyone in his bed in years, and tried to stamp down the knot of butterflies in his stomach. This was Gregory, who he trusted implicitly. Who he loved, a confession he had only made in his deepest thoughts, and kept buried deep, taking it out only rarely to turn in his head and heart until he felt giddy with delight. There was nothing to be nervous over⎯this would change nothing.

When he walked back out, Gregory had used the time to change himself, and was sitting on the edge of the bed, feet twining nervously together. He heard Mycroft’s approach and looked up, and Mycroft’s breath caught at the trust and nervousness, and love buried deep in his eyes. 

This would change everything.

He crossed the room and leaned down, kissing Gregory sweetly. “Hello,” he said as he pulled away.

It was the right thing to say as the tension in the room cracked. “Hello,” Gregory replied grinning.

Mycroft reached behind him to turn down the duvet, move the extra pillows to the bench at the foot of the bed. Gregory helped him, licking his lips a bit nervously as he settled into the bed. He groaned as he sank down. “That’s it, I’m never sleeping anywhere else ever again,” Gregory said, wriggling down into the mattress. Mycroft grinned at him as the implication of what he’d just said registered with the inspector, whose eyes widened almost comically.

“Good,” Mycroft said, cutting off the explanation Gregory was preparing as he reached out and turned off the lamp, settling in himself. He held his breath for a moment, waiting to see what Gregory would do. 

What Gregory did was grope around until he found Mycroft’s hand and then started tracing the back of it with his index finger. When he’d finished that exploration, he turned his hand over and ran his fingers over the palm, making Mycroft shiver with pleasure. Gregory smiled into the dark and gently tugged on Mycroft’s hand, pulling him closer. When Mycroft obliged, he rolled onto his side and rested his head on Mycroft’s chest, resting his palm above his heart. Mycroft ran his hand up and down Gregory’s back and listened to his breathing slow as the other man fell asleep.

It took Mycroft far longer to fall asleep. The feeling of holding another being, the trust implied in sleeping next to someone, filled his heart to bursting. The last time he had felt this way was when he and Sherlock had been small and Sherlock had crept into his room, changed into a raven, and let Mycroft hold him to his chest so he could chase his younger brother’s nightmares away. That feeling of implicit trust paled next to what he was feeling now, with Gregory on his chest, palm and fingers warm through his shirt. 

He turned his head and brushed a kiss to Gregory’s forehead, barely whispering, “I love you,” into the darkness, a hushed confession he was startled to make. It felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him, and he drifted off to sleep, a small smile on his face.

Gregory, who had woken just enough at the brush of lips on his forehead, stilled for a moment when he heard the whispered confession, heart pounding in his ears. He waited until he heard Mycroft’s breaths even out and deepen before he whispered, “You too,” into the darkness.


	6. Interlude--John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this part was "The Dream of a Normal Death" from the _Doctor Who: Series Three_ soundtrack by Murray Gold.

The day John was shot was an ordinary day. He woke, ate a tasteless breakfast, went to the med tents with Murray, gave out anti-fungal creams and paracetamol, ate lunch (marginally tasty), and then got the call. 

“Sir?”

“Watson, you’re needed to accompany a convoy out to the local villages for a medical visit. They’re leaving in twenty. Take Murray with you.”

“Yes, sir.” 

John relayed the message to Murray, who looked at him with worry. It was rare that surgeons were chosen to accompany convoys⎯they were too valuable. John himself had seen action in Belfast, in Serbia, and even here in Afghanistan, but that had been in the early days, before they had firmly established camps that were more than a few tents and no fences to keep the enemy out. 

“Did they say why?” Murray asked as they threw together some travel packs⎯gauze, wraps, morphine, ligatures, water.

“Just a medical visit,” John said shortly, checking his gun and adding some extra clips to his belt. He checked Murray’s gun as well, handing it and some clips over with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But they have their reasons.”

Murray swallowed and accepted the weapon. He was green⎯never seen combat, had only fired his weapon at the range. John clapped him on the shoulder as he picked up his pack. “It’ll be fine,” he said.

He lied.

 

Two hours into their ride out to the villages, they were ambushed. A rocket came out of nowhere in the hills and the truck in front of them exploded in a spectacular fireball.

“Shit!” Murray yelled as their truck screeched to a halt. Everyone bailed out, crouching behind the truck for protection.

“Stay put!” one of the soldiers yelled to John and Murray before diving around the truck’s rear bumper to add his bullets to the hail of them that were pinging against the armored vehicle. John pulled his gun and looked grimly at Murray, who pulled out his own, hand shaking slightly. 

An agonised scream rang out, and John shouted, “Cover me!” at Murray before he darted out from behind the truck to the side of the man (why hadn’t he bothered to learn their names?) who had told them to stay put. He was bleeding badly⎯the leg of his trousers was red and sticky. John cut the fabric, peeling it aside to reveal a spurting wound. The bullet had nicked an artery⎯not good. John yanked out a ligature long enough to be used as a tourniquet and tied it around the man’s thigh, pulling hard and making the man grunt in pain. 

John spared him a quick glance as he said, “You’ll be all right,” as he plunged a syringe of morphine into the man’s thigh ( _Thompson, his name is Thompson,_ John thought as he caught a glimpse of the name strip on his armour). Thompson’s breathing was ragged as he fought back a scream when John rolled him on his side to check for an exit wound. There wasn’t one. John blinked and let himself think for three seconds about what the next step should be⎯the bleeding was slowing thanks to the tourniquet, but the bullet needed to come out and they were still almost an hour from base. 

Just as he was reaching for a bottle of antiseptic, John’s shoulder was on fire. 

Shot. 

He had been shot and he had to stop the bleeding, had to keep Thompson alive had to get Murray’s attention had to had to had to⎯

He slumped forward, fingers slipping in his blood as he clutched his shoulder. The bullet had slipped through the exposed part of his shoulder revealed by the shifting of his armour as he’d reached for his pack, and oh, God, the pain he couldn’t think couldn’t focus and if he didn’t Thompson would die he would die himself. He groaned and blinked hard, trying to force his arm to work as he reached for his pack.

Thompson’s eyes were wide and glassy with shock and blood loss and where was Murray? He needed to have him tell Harry tell her he was sorry and he loved her and to remember him and and and 

Murray’s hand closed around his arm and was dragging him back behind the truck, snagging John’s pack with his other hand. 

“Thompson⎯” John managed to gasp.

“He’s gone, John,” Murray said. He shoved John down in front of the tyre and peeled John’s armour’s tape open, plucking it from him like a snake shedding its skin. John reached feebly for his pack as he slid down the tyre to lie flat on the sand, fingers scrabbling at one of the outer pockets of his pack where his feather, the one he had kept with him all these years, rested. Murray, seeing that he would not be calmed until he had the pack close enough to reach, paused in his wrapping of John’s shoulder to push the pack closer. Just as John’s hand touched the pocket with his feather, he thought he saw something black out of the corner of his eye. Pocket and feather forgotten, he turned his head to see, but whatever he saw vanished the moment his eyes would have locked on it. 

He slumped further into the sand and let the darkness pull him under.

 

John didn’t remember much of the next few days. He remembered Murray’s face hovering over him as they bounced along back to Kabul. He had vague memories of staring at the ceiling of the hospital where he had worked for the past months. He knew he had been loaded onto a plane; he heard the words “Medical discharge likely,” and then he knew no more until he woke for good, conscious and lucid, at Selly Oak, with a black feather tucked into the breast pocket of his hospital gown and a gnawing ache in his shoulder.

He pulled out the feather from his pocket and twirled it between his fingers, examining it from every angle. He frowned slightly. This wasn’t his feather⎯he’d spent hours inspecting his feather over the years, and he knew it intimately. This one was a stranger. John flung his legs over the edge of the bed, planted his feet on the floor, took a deep, fortifying breath, and stood, gripping the rail with his right hand. He allowed himself to shake for ten seconds before getting a hold over himself and shuffled the three steps to the chair, where his pack sat, still dusty. His left hand tried to reach out automatically, but he froze at the pain that ripped down from his shoulder. John hissed and switched hands, fumbling a bit with the zipper of the outside pocket. Once he got it open, he pulled out his feather, clutching it to him like a talisman. Oddly, he felt a bit of the ache in his shoulder ease once he had his feather in hand, but then he registered the shooting pain in his thigh. He rubbed at his leg carefully, prodding it for signs of injury, but there were no bandages. He scrunched the hem of the gown up a bit and looked for scars, but there were none of those, either. He frowned and tried to stand again, only for his leg to collapse out from underneath him, sending him to the floor with a sharp yelp of agony as he twisted his shoulder.

One of the nurses came running in, clucking at him, as she manhandled him gently and got him stood up, then half helped, half carried him back to the bed and got him resettled, pulling on the various lines and leads that John had miraculously managed not to pull out on his three step sojourn. “There we are, Doctor,” she said briskly as she checked his vitals, “I’ll get Doctor Rhines in here to see you now that you’re awake and all. Let’s not go on any more adventures just yet, hmm?”

She was gone before John had the chance to sputter out an apology or demand an explanation of why his leg hurt so badly when there appeared to be nothing physically wrong with it. He sat the feathers carefully on the little table next to his bed and tried to stay calm, but it wasn’t working.

Ten minutes later, John had worked up a good head of steam and was about ready to get up and demand some answers, dodgy leg and screaming shoulder be damned, when the doctor breezed in, John’s chart under his arm.

“Good to see you, Doctor Watson,” he said, giving John a firm, dry handshake. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” John said shortly.

A sympathetic wince. “I’m sure, what with the screws and plate in your shoulder. I’ll get some more pain meds ordered for you. In the meantime, let me increase your morphine drip a little.” He reached over and fiddled with the regulator, adjusting it slightly. 

“Let me see my chart.” 

“I’m not sure that’s⎯”

John held out his right hand, staring down the other doctor. Something in his expression must have been absolutely forbidding, because the other man paled slightly and surrendered the chart, talking as John flipped through it.

Five screws, one plate, shattered scapula, limited movement for six weeks, PT required. John paged through the surgeon’s notes and then Doctor Rhines’ notes for the three days he’d been here. Dangerously high fever, infection. Loss of range of motion unknown, tremor in left hand intermittent, enough to keep him from ever performing surgery again. 

“I was surprised to hear you’d been up and about already,” the other man was saying.

John grunted in acknowledgment. Adrenaline does strange things to the body⎯once he’d realised the feather in his pocket wasn’t _his_ , he’d panicked and _needed_ to ensure his feather was still here and safe⎯it had been a compulsion that went bone-deep and forced him to act. He got to the end of the chart and started back at the beginning, looking for what was missing⎯a mention of a leg wound. 

There was nothing wrong with his leg. That couldn’t be right.

“Doctor Watson?”

“Mmm.” He kept flipping pages, eyes scanning at a frantic pace. 

“Doctor Watson!” 

John’s eyes flew up to meet the doctor’s at the command in the other man’s voice. 

“You need to read this, too,” he held out a thick sheaf of papers, stamped and signed and terribly official.

John’s heart sank down into his stomach, and he had to hold back the violent wave of nausea that threatened to overtake him as he took the papers with a hand that only slightly trembled. 

He read through them slowly, forcing himself to take in every word. Medical discharge. Unable to complete duties as required by his position. Pension. Counseling. Fuck.

Fuck.

John pressed his lips together, biting his bottom lip to keep himself from screaming or crying or both. Doctor Rhines was looking at him warily, and then cleared his throat. “Right,” he said, nodding at the papers in John’s hand. “I’ll leave those here for you⎯we’re not going to discharge you from here for a few week; we need to make sure your fever and infection are gone, and we’ll get you started on your PT and counseling regime here before sending you off. You’ll need to sign them before you leave.”

He stood up, brushing his hands on his trousers. 

“What about my leg?” John blurted out.

“What about it?”

“It gave out from under me when I tried to stand up, but there’s no indication of injury from my charts. It hurts, still, here,” he pointed to a spot on his thigh, “but there’s no apparent reason for it.”

“Hmmm.” Doctor Rhines lifted the sheet and the hem of the gown just high enough to inspect where John had pointed, and then lowered them again. “There’s no indication of injury, Doctor Watson. I’m sure it was just your muscles being weakened from being off them for a few days.” He flashed a reassuring smile at John and took his leave.

John waited until the door was closed before he let loose an anguished howl that he barely managed to muffle with his pillow. It went on and on as he cried and screamed with the unfairness of it all. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He was supposed to be a doctor in the RAMC forever (well, at least until he chose to retire) and operate and save lives and now he couldn’t anymore. He was useless, worthless, careerless. 

He didn’t know what to do. Who he was. What and who he was supposed to be now.

Finally, the storm passed enough so that he could drop the sweat-, spit-, and tear-soaked pillow to his lap, where it disturbed something. He frowned and lifted the pillow once more. The feathers had somehow made it onto his lap, two black curls against his blanket. He picked them both up and felt the hitching in his chest ease a bit. On closer inspection, John could see that while they were not wholly identical, there were enough similarities to infer that they had come from the same bird. He slid down the bed to lie flat, pillow disregarded, and held the feathers to the light, thinking of the black _something_ he had seen just before he passed out in the sand. A soft susurrus of wind, a blast of desert heat, the smell of sand, crept through his consciousness, dulling the pain in his shoulder and leg and lulling him to sleep.

 

When the nurse came in an hour later to change out the various bags John’s IVs were hooked into, John was fast asleep, whimpering, brow furrowed as a nightmare ripped through him. The feathers were just out of reach of his clutched fist, which was seeking them blindly. The nurse, sensing that those feathers meant something to her patient, pushed them carefully into John’s fist, which closed around them convulsively. 

As she shut the door behind her, John’s breath evened out and his brow relaxed slightly as he brought the feathers in closer to his cheek.


	7. Chapter 7

“Do you realise what today is?” Mycroft asked as Gregory sat down at the table. 

Gregory looked around, bemused, at the other diners, and replied, “’Fraid I don’t, sorry.” He leaned in and brushed a kiss across Mycroft’s cheek.

“We met five years ago today.”

“Really?” Gregory smiled as he took a sip of his wine and savoured it before adding, “I hadn’t remembered the day.” He raised his glass and said, quietly, “To Sherlock, without whom we never would have met.”

Mycroft’s lips quirked a bit and touched his glass to Gregory’s. Their feet were entwined under the table for the entire meal, and when they stood to leave, Mycroft’s hand was warm on the small of Gregory’s back. They didn’t stop touching on the ride home: Gregory’s fingers brushing over the back of Mycroft’s hand resting on Gregory’s thigh, Mycroft tracing nonsense patterns into the weave of Gregory’s trousers.

It had been a little over a month since he had whispered his confession of love into the darkness of his bedroom, and in that time, Gregory had been staying over more and more often. Nights spent carefully avoiding any overtly sexual touch had morphed into not being close enough. The first time Gregory’s mouth had closed around his cock, Mycroft knew he would never be able to get enough of this man. The first time he returned the favour, ten minutes later, he knew he would never be able to disentangle his life from this man’s and a feeling of peace settled over him. He thought of the feather Mummy had given Gregory, and then he allowed himself one wild, heady moment of imagining giving Gregory one of his feathers himself and binding his life to this extraordinary man.

But he shied away from that thought as soon as it finished forming. Gregory could never know what Mycroft could do, what and who he truly was no matter how much Mummy pushed him into revealing himself. It was far too dangerous a secret, and if, Heavens forbid, Gregory was ever kidnapped, tortured, and questioned, the secret would come out (no one can resist torture indefinitely) and then Mycroft’s entire family would be in danger. Mycroft’s enemies would eventually learn where Mycroft’s weakness was, and would exploit it. He would be powerless to resist their demands, especially if his bond-mate was in danger.

No, it was better to keep it secret than endanger Gregory in such a way. He bit back a sad sigh and looked to Gregory, memorising how the streetlight flashed across his face, picking out his features. 

When the car stopped outside his door, Mycroft got out and held out a hand for Gregory, who took it with a soft smile. He pulled the other man in close and kissed Gregory thoroughly, chasing the faint taste of wine in his mouth. Gregory pressed him backwards until Mycroft’s back was against the door, and then one of Gregory’s clever hands was in pocket, removing the keys and fumbling one handed with them (his other hand was pressing tightly in between Mycroft’s shoulder blades) until he got the proper key in the lock and turned the knob, pushing Mycroft back into the darkened hallway. 

Mycroft pulled back, slipping one hand down to Gregory’s waistband, tugging his shirt free, and sliding his hand over warm skin. “Gregory, I…” he swallowed thickly as warm lips traced a line up his throat. “I would very much like it if you…” Now there were hands on his tie, carefully untying the knot and pulling it loose from his collar. “If you would take me to bed,” he finished, capturing Gregory’s hands in his own, making the other man look him in the eye. 

Greg swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You mean…?”

Mycroft nodded, a flush stealing its way up his chest to heat his cheeks. 

Greg’s smile flashed predatorily before he gentled it, pulling Mycroft in close as he leaned in and murmured, “I would like that very much indeed.” He nipped at Mycroft’s earlobe then started tugging him down the hallway to their bedroom. 

They let go of each other just long enough to shut the bedroom door. Mycroft turned to look back at Gregory, who gave him a long, slow smirk and started undoing his shirt buttons, revealing a long stripe of skin that Mycroft’s fingers ached to touch. He caught himself staring and shook his head to recall himself. When he dared to meet to Gregory’s eyes, he saw the love shining through them before he realised that his lover was laughing at him. 

“You’re allowed to look, y’know,” Gregory said gently. “It’s not like you’ve not seen me starkers before.”

That first time’s particular memory, made only a month ago, made Mycroft squirm a little with need. “Gregory,” he started, then paused licking his lips. Something in his demeanour must have said something to Greg, who instantly dropped his hands away from his buttons and waited, patiently, for whatever Mycroft was going to say next. “I’ve never, I mean, I’ve not ever⎯”

Greg’s eyes widened and Mycroft immediately backtracked. “I’m not a virgin,” he said, firmly. “But this, this is different, this is important, this will change everything and I don’t want to ruin…” Gregory cut him off with a searing kiss.

“This changes nothing except for the better,” Gregory whispered against his lips, peppering his words with soft kisses. 

“You can’t know that,” Mycroft protested. “No one can know that.”

“I do. I know that this, that we, will only get better from here. Do you know how I know that?”

Mycroft shook his head mutely.

Gregory smiled a truly heart shattering smile. Mycroft felt his breath and his heart stutter in his chest. “I know because I love you,” Gregory said, cupping one hand to Mycroft’s cheek. “And because you love me, I know it.”

Mycroft’s face crumpled under the force of his emotions which threatened to send him soaring and to drown him simultaneously. Gregory, sensing his distress, eased him down onto the bed and held him tightly, whispering nonsense into his hair as he smoothed a hand down Mycroft’s back. When the tremors eased, Gregory pulled back slightly to kiss Mycroft’s forehead and held his lips there for a long moment. 

“No one outside my family has ever said that to me,” Mycroft confessed after a moment, pushing his face against Gregory’s chest. 

“I’ll tell you every day,” Gregory vowed. “You deserve to hear it every day, and to know every moment that I do.”

They held each other for a long time before Mycroft leaned down and pressed a slow, sweet kiss to Gregory’s lips. 

“Gregory?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you?”

Gregory’s response was a fiery kiss that stole Mycroft’s breath and sent his heart pounding so loudly he was sure Gregory could feel it through his open shirt. 

 

After, their hearts thundering and their skin slick with sweat, Gregory pulled Mycroft close, slipping out and feeling the cool slick of his semen trickle down Mycroft’s thigh. “We should get you cleaned up,” he said, sliding one finger through the mess. 

“Mmmm, in a moment,” Mycroft said, lacing his fingers through Gregory’s and pulling his hand up to press a kiss to his palm. 

“Lazy sod,” Gregory breathed as he stood, reluctantly pulling his hand free. Mycroft pouted at him and Gregory rolled his eyes, striding into the bathroom to wet a flannel. He cleaned himself off with quick, practiced strokes, and returned to the bedroom, gently wiping the warm flannel over Mycroft’s body before sliding back under the duvet. 

Mycroft immediately turned onto his side and slid down just a bit so he could rest his head over Gregory’s heart, listening to its steady beat. They settled into a quiet near-doze when Mycroft abruptly said, “Move in with me.”

Greg caught his breath and held it. Mycroft froze and stiffened in his arms, waiting for rejection even after all that they’d shared that night. 

“Hey,” Greg nudged at him until Mycroft reluctantly met his eyes. He grinned and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, that’s a yes, you sod.”

Mycroft surged up to meet Gregory and their mouths crashed together. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft breathed when they parted, gasping.

Gregory’s expression was tender. “No,” he murmured softly, “Thank _you_.”

Mycroft heard the years of loneliness, of heartache and loss and rejection in those words and held Gregory tightly, counting his heartbeats until he fell asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this part was "Pink" from the _Sherlock Season 1_ soundtrack by David Arnold and Michael Price.

Mycroft was walking through Hyde Park when he heard Mummy’s distinctive call. He turned in the direction of the sound and saw her feathered cloak disappear into a small copse of trees. He followed, and accepted her warm embrace when he met her.

She pulled back and looked at him, head cocked to one side. “Love suits you, my dear,” she said with a knowing smile. 

Mycroft flushed and fidgeted. Gregory had moved in three weeks ago, and he still could not believe his good fortune. 

The Morrighan sobered and said, carefully, “You must tell him, Mycroft.”

He shook his head. Her eyes hardened slightly but he stood his ground. 

“I won’t risk putting him in danger.”

“But you would risk losing him for deceiving him? He will find out eventually.”

Mycroft stared at the ground, knuckles white where they gripped the handle of his umbrella. 

“There is still time,” she said, covering his hand with her own. “He is protected by your feather that I gave him. He still has it, does he not?”

He nodded. He’d seen it when Gregory was unpacking. His lover had laid the feather reverently on top of the cabinet on his side of the bed, and it had stayed there. Mycroft often found his eyes straying to it, but either Gregory had not noticed or simply wasn’t volunteering information.

“It is well enough, then.”

They listened to the insects buzzing in the trees for a moment before she broke their slightly uneasy silence.

“Your brother is moving,” she stated, watching him knowingly.

Mycroft started at that, and then a flash of guilt washed over him. He’d been distracted with Gregory, and had neglected Sherlock these past few weeks. “Mummy, I⎯”

“I know. You were busy, my dear, and I’ve been watching over him. His landlord does not appreciate the violin or the explosions, and evicted him. One of Sherlock’s former clients has a flat for rent, and he will move in there at the end of the week.”

Mycroft nodded, making a mental note to learn who this client was, where the flat was, and gather data on both.

“And his partner is here.”

“His partner?”

She smiled coyly. 

Mycroft’s mobile buzzed.

_Home early tonight. Where are you? Wanna shag before dinner? ;-D  
⎯G_

He blushed a bit and sent back some thing he hoped was in the affirmative as his mother’s piercing eyes watched every move of his fingers, making him clumsy. 

“I won’t keep you, my dear,” she said with a knowing grin. “But do try to keep an eye on Sherlock, will you?”

“Of course, Mummy.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “What can you tell me about this supposed partner of his?”

“He’s no more a supposition than your partner is to you,” she snapped, “and I know everything there is to know about him. What you discern about him is up to you.”

“I apologise, Mummy, that was rude. But Sherlock and love…I never thought it possible.”

“There is much about your brother you do not know. And there is much about yourself you do not know, Mycroft.”

He blinked at her, opening and closing his mouth a few times before managing to croak out a “What do you mean⎯” before Mummy stepped away and changed, brushing a wing past his forehead as she took flight. Mycroft waited in the small copse until he had his composure back, and then walked back to his waiting car, swinging his umbrella less enthusiastically than was his wont. 

 

*

John Watson hated the sound of his cane. The constant clack _clack_ made his hand (when it wasn’t shaking) clench and forged a furrow between his eyebrows that was threatening to become permanent. He clacked his way from his dull, beige flat (Purgatory) to his therapist’s bland, carefully decorated office (the first circle of Hell) to the Tesco (the second circle of Hell⎯why did man invent those bloody self check machines?), back to the flat, to the park for some needed air (Earth, not quite Heaven) to the local coffee shop to read through the adverts for a job (Dis⎯he’d lost faith in ever finding work again) and finally back to the flat where he waited for sleep (the ninth circle of Hell⎯the nightmares of losing something precious were worse than anything he’d seen Over There).

Life was dull and meaningless and he found himself staring at his gun far too often for his liking. Writing a blog was pointless⎯all he did was go to the shops, therapy, and the park. Nothing ever happened to him, not anymore. 

On occasion, he’d pull out both feathers and run his fingers along the barbs. Something wound tight in his chest eased a bit when he held them, and he found himself wondering why it was that these two pieces of detritus, cast off from a raven who certainly didn’t miss them, soothed some deep part of his soul. 

On the bad days, the dark days when he literally could not get out of bed for fear that today would be the day he’d surge out of bed and yank the gun from his drawer and drop the feathers and tuck the barrel into his mouth and pull the trigger and just _end this_ , on those days, he curled under the cheap thin duvet and waited it out, gritting his teeth and clenching his left hand (damned traitorous shaking thing) so tightly around the feathers that when he finally felt safe enough to let them go, there were faint lines dug into his palm that didn’t fade for hours.

 

The day after one of those bad days, John forced himself out of bed and down to the park, where, it turned out, the course of his life veered sharply in a new direction via Mike Stamford, one of Bart’s labs, and a tall man in a dark coat.

 

The man asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

All John could stutter was, “Sorry, how did you?” and got nothing in return but more peeling away of his layers (and in front of Stamford, God) and a wink. 

And it was only later that John realised this man, this Sherlock Holmes, had never really told him how he knew all of John’s secrets.

 

*

 

The flat was a mess. A good mess, a lived-in mess. John had never been one to keep many possessions, and scanning through the piles of…stuff in the flat that belonged to Sherlock, he could see the whimsy he thought the man kept carefully hidden away under that coat and that cold demeanour. 

Mess, he could handle. 

He’d just sat down with a grunt into the reddish armchair when a grey haired man burst into the room, setting John’s nerves on edge. People bursting in like that usually meant trouble, and it took a lot to keep him in his chair rather than following through with the ridiculous urge he felt to throw himself in front of a man he’d just met yesterday to protect him.

Soon enough, he was in a cab on the way to a crime scene (a _crime scene_ for God’s sake!) with a man who, John was quickly determining, was utterly stark raving mad and completely brilliant. Something in his chest eased for the first time since he’d left Selly Oak with only his old Army duffel and his cane, which rested against his calf and knee like a third limb.

Before he knew it, he was investigating a dead woman’s fingernails and desperately hoping that he’d be able to stand up again without assistance after kneeling awkwardly on the floor. He did, thankfully, but the stairs were a bear to get down and by the time he got outside, Sherlock was gone. 

_Never leave anyone behind_ his mind supplied, as his heart twisted in his chest. _For fuck’s sake Watson,_ he chided himself, _you’ve only just met him and you’re hurt that he ran off? Don’t get attached⎯you’re not worth anything to anyone anymore, what with the nightmares and the depression and the fucking shaking hand._

He shook his head bitterly and headed off for the main road, when the phone started ringing. And then every phone he passed started ringing. He finally gave in, yanked open the phone booth door, and lifted the receiver.

When the…conversation was over, he hung up the phone and stared out at the black car that pulled up to the kerb and sat, crouched like a cat in the darkness, waiting for him. He stood up straight and walked calmly to the door, which opened for him, and sat down next to one of the prettiest women he’d seen in years. Every nerve was alight, adrenaline coursed through his veins, his hand was steady⎯hell, even his leg wasn’t hurting.

He got out of the car and had the second-strangest (and creepiest) conversation he’d ever had (the first was just yesterday in Barts’ labs), and then went all the across London to send a text for his mad flatmate.

 

Several hours later, John had his limp cured, his cane forgotten and brought back, an interrupted dinner, and half of CID rummaging through his flat. 

He also had lost Sherlock, and that thought made something in him pace nervously, a mantra of _findhimfindhimfindhim_ competing with _you **just met him** why do you care so much?_ racing through his brain. When the laptop chimed with the location of that damned pink phone, John swore and ran down the stairs to hail a cab, leaving his cane hooked on the back of the chair. 

Now, he was _in the wrong fucking building_ watching Sherlock lift a pill (the poison, he would die, John knew it just as well as he knew the names of every muscle that would bring that pill to Sherlock’s lips) to the light and inspect it, then bring it close (too fucking close) to his lips.

John didn’t think about that. He drew, aimed, and took a steadying breath. The world dropped away⎯all he saw was the man threatening his friend. _In Arduis Fidelis,_ he thought.

He exhaled.

He pulled the trigger.

 

*

 

Gregory came home late that night. Mycroft knew, after he’d seen this Doctor Watson and Sherlock at the crime scene, that Gregory would be late, but he hadn’t anticipated him being this late.

He heard the quiet sound of Gregory undressing, then a waft of cool air as he lifted the duvet and crawled into bed, pressing his face into Mycroft’s neck. They breathed together for long moments before Gregory said, “Sherlock almost died tonight. Thank God for that Watson fellow. I saw you talking to them, earlier. There were powder burns on Watson’s hands. That was a hell of a shot he made.”

Mycroft said nothing, burning with guilt. He should have known. He should have anticipated this and done something about it. As it was, Sherlock’s half hearted cry for help had come almost too late for him to arrive. He’d changed and flown as fast as he could, and had only just beaten Anthea to the scene when Sherlock and Doctor Watson sauntered over, laughing like lunatics.

Gregory mashed his face even harder into Mycroft’s neck, and whispered, “Get Watson a permit, would you? If he’s going to follow your brother around, he’s going to need it.” With that said, he dropped off into sleep, one arm snaking around Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft laced his fingers through Gregory’s and pulled his arm down until their joined hands rested over Mycroft’s heart. He didn’t sleep that night⎯the echoes of _what if_ and the nightmare of what could have happened rang too loudly in his consciousness for him to sleep.

He was imagining it being Gregory lying on the floor of that school, choking and gasping for air, Gregory dying alone and helpless as the poison worked through his system as the sun rose. The alarm went off a few minutes later, and Gregory stirred, pressing a sleepy kiss to Mycroft’s neck, dissapating the images from his mind, but not the sick sense of dread and fear that dwelled deep in his gut.

“Sleep well?” Gregory asked, stretching a bit.

“Yes,” he lied, watching Gregory move and breathe and speak and stretch. He was alive, gloriously so, and Mycroft abruptly understood the decision this Doctor Watson had made when faced with the prospect of someone, even a relative stranger, not being there anymore. 

He would have done the same thing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part takes place just after chapter three of Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You), which is linked at the top of this story. If you've not read the first three chapters of that story, **please read them before you read this part** or this will make no sense!

Five months after they returned from Sussex, flushed and in love and _together_ , bound inextricably in words and feathers, Sherlock and John found themselves standing around a body with Lestrade and his compatriots in tow.

Sherlock was crouched down, peering at the victim’s jewelry, while John and Lestrade stood off to one side, observing.

“He looks happy,” Lestrade remarked offhand.

John quirked his lips at the inspector.

“So do you, for that matter.”

“I am happy,” John replied after a moment, sharp eyes following Sherlock’s every movement. “More happy than I’ve ever been. And so is he,” he finished, nodding at Sherlock. John peered at Lestrade, weighing and judging. “You look happy too,” he said. “Mycroft’s been good for you, and you for him.”

“What? How did you know about that?”

“It’s hardly a secret, Lestrade. Anyway, Sherlock loves to tease his brother, who retaliates by regaling Sherlock with stories about your dates.”

Lestrade started to splutter a reply, but got cut off by Sherlock’s barrage of observations about the corpse, her killer, and how it was done. 

When Sherlock swept by them moments later, John turned to follow, but then stopped and looked back at Lestrade.

“I’m happy for you, truly. You both deserve to be happy.” 

And with that, he was gone, jogging after Sherlock, who’d already disappeared around the corner.

It was the last time Lestrade spoke to John. Later, after the funeral, he would wonder if he and Mycroft deserved to be happy after seeing the hell Sherlock was going through.

 

When Mycroft came to see him, two weeks after John died, they both were half the men they were. When Sherlock took his brother in his palm and let him nestle right up against his chest, his feathers tickling his chin, it felt a bit like they were children again, waiting out the nightmares or the storms that would keep them awake long into the night.   
“What did it feel like, being bonded?” Mycroft asked him.

Sherlock looked at him, watching him carefully. “You’ve not told him, have you? Even though he has your feather?”

“He doesn’t know that it’s mine.”

They were silent, listening to the flat creak around them. 

“It was everything.” Sherlock said into the silence. “I curse every day that I wasted in not giving him one of my feathers myself. He was everything, _everything_ to me, Mycroft, and now he’s gone, and I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Mycroft watched him, waiting to see if Sherlock would say more, but his brother remained silent until finally, what seemed like an age later, Sherlock murmured, “Don’t waste time, Mycroft. I regret that more than almost anything.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and then reached into his pocket, withdrawing one long, black feather, holding it out to his brother, hating himself for having to be the one to give him this, to break any last hope of John returning to him. 

When he left, minutes later, his brother was lying on the sofa, his feather clutched tightly in his hand as if it were a lifeline. 

 

Gregory was gone when Mycroft returned home, heavyhearted and angry at his mother. She had made him wait to see Sherlock but had given no reason why. His brother had been left on his own to suffer, and that alone made his blood boil. He leaned out the window and called for Mummy, and settled in his chair to wait.

She flew in a few minutes later and changed, turning to face her eldest, who was watching her with the coldest stare she had received in years.

“Ah,” she said in greeting, sinking down in the chair that Gregory usually occupied.

“Why?”

She sighed. “Mycroft⎯”

“No,” he interrupted. “I will not hear any of your half-truths. I asked you why I should not go and see him two weeks ago, and you told me to wait. I obeyed, and I wish I had not done so. He is broken, Mummy, far beyond anything I could imagine, and I cannot abide the fact that I left him be on your orders. So, I will hear why you bade me abandon my brother when he needed me most, and I will not be refused.”

“I bade you to do so because it is what will happen to you. You will lose Gregory, Mycroft, that is inevitable. And because you are not bound, you will not survive the guilt of living without binding yourself to the one person who means more to you than any other person. You have denied the both of you the happiness you could have, and misery is the consequence. Sherlock told you he curses every day he did not give John his feather, and they have known each other far less time than you and Gregory. What will happen to you, Mycroft, if you refuse to tell him?”

Mycroft stared at her, aghast. “You allowed Sherlock to fight through his pain alone because you thought it would teach me a lesson?”

“No,” she said, gently, moving to stand in front of him, “I did it so you could see what you would lose. You were not old enough when your father left me to remember the agony of that loss⎯” she looked away, gathered herself, and continued, “and I will not have you suffer the same fate.”

“But you’ll let Sherlock suffer instead?”

“Do not concern yourself over that. They are bound to each other, and as such, I can help them. I will bring John back for your brother. I could not do the same for your father, because like you, I was afraid to give my heart to another and bind myself to him. And when he died, I could do nothing to bring him back to me and to you and your brother. And if you do nothing, when you lose your Gregory, I will be able to do nothing to save you the loss and the pain. Sherlock needed to understand that pain so that he and John will hold on ever tighter.”

Mycroft swallowed, reeling with what his mother had just revealed. “When? When will you bring John back?”

“He’s waiting for me now. Once I return home, I will bring him back.” She reached out and brushed her hand over his hair, smoothing it. 

“You speak as if you can see the future. You speak in absolutes⎯you say I will lose Gregory. How can you know that?”

She leaned down and touched her lips to his cheek, lingering for a moment before she pulled away. “My darling, you are far too like me. Do not deny yourself a bondmate because you fear giving your soul over to someone else.”

The front door banged shut and Mycroft looked at her with wide eyes. She changed and croaked, “And I speak the truth of the future, Mycroft. Think on what I’ve said,” and then she was gone.

Gregory opened the study door just as Mycroft turned away from the window. “Who were you talking to?” he asked as he walked over to join him, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek in greeting.

“No one,” Mycroft replied, pulling him tightly. 

Mycroft kept Gregory within touching distance the rest of the night, and when they finally crawled into bed, Gregory pulled him close and held him, one hand resting over Mycroft’s heart.

“What’s bothering you?”

“Hmm?”

Gregory paused for a moment, tracing a nonsense pattern on Mycroft’s chest. “You’ve seemed a bit…off tonight. Did something happen?”

“No,” Mycroft said softly. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing, truly.”

“You sure?”

“Very.” He rolled over and kissed Gregory soundly, running one hand up and down his back, feeling the warm, living heat of him. He chased the sound of Gregory’s blood thundering under his fingertips until finally, they fell back, too exhausted to do more than perfunctorily clean themselves up with Gregory’s old t-shirt. They slept tangled up in each other, breathing in sync.

When Mycroft woke the next morning, he was alone. Gregory must have been called in for a case⎯the bed was cold. He rolled over to see if he had left a note on the pillow, but there was none. Instead, his feather was resting on Gregory’s bedside cabinet. He hovered his fingers over it, but withdrew them, trembling slightly. 

His mobile trilled, jarring him from his thoughts. He opened the text message and sucked in a sharp breath.

_My, my, my, Mr. Holmes. Little brother’s got his playmate back, and now you’ve got one for me to play with too. Oooh what fun we’ll have! But yours looks a bit old⎯maybe I should just have him put down like dear old Doctor Watson was. :)_

_Ciao for now!  
⎯JM_


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This part takes place just after chapter four of Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You). If you've not read that story, please read it before you read this part!

Sherlock couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the events of the past ten hours. He’d been sleeping on the sofa, the feather he’d given John resting over his heart, when John, real, whole, breathing, _alive_ had woken him. In that moment, hand pressed over John’s heart to feel it thundering against his palm, Sherlock knew he would never want for anything again.

And then John had revealed his final secret, the one that shocked Sherlock to his core⎯Mother had made John into one of her children⎯and John had given Sherlock one of his own feathers, binding himself to Sherlock as Sherlock had done for him when they were in Sussex. 

They laid awake well into the night, hands clasped together, talking, unwilling to let go of each other for the fear that they would wake and this all would have been a dream. They talked about their past lives, the ones they’d only just remembered, laughing about past escapades and sobering when they talked about past pain and loss. 

“I’ve always loved you,” John said, pulling Sherlock in close. “That was what your mother was trying to tell us. We’ve always loved one another, always belonged together, and she gave us that.”

Sherlock stilled. “What exactly did she say to you?”

John pulled back just enough so he could peer down at Sherlock’s face, taking in his expression. “What I just told you. I don’t remember her exact words, but she seemed…sad somehow. Not only for us, but just. I don’t know.”

Sherlock rested his hand over John’s heart, brushing his fingers over the feather John had given him a few scant hours ago. He felt the point of their connection, warm and steady and reassuring, pulse through his fingers, up to his heart, where it settled in and suffused through him. His heart was pounding so loudly that he thought John surely must be able to hear it. But John’s fingers were running almost absently through Sherlock’s curls like John would do when he was thinking of a way to ask Sherlock something.

“What do you call what we have?” John asked, his question shattering the tension in his body.

“What do you mean?”

“You called it bonding. We’ve bound ourselves together; it’s not just one-sided anymore. So what is this called? What should I call you when I introduce you? Partner?”

Sherlock considered the questions for a moment. “In our terms, it would be bondmate. But people wouldn’t understand that. In the eyes of my⎯our⎯kind,” he corrected, “we are considered married.”

“Married,” John breathed.

“Problem?”

“No, no, of course not! Just a bit strange, that’s all. Never thought I’d be married. We’ve never married before.”

“Well, legally, we’re not married. Mycroft can take care of that for us, if you want.”

John blinked down at him. “You sound uncertain. Is that what you want?”

“I’ve wanted that from the moment I bonded myself to you,” Sherlock replied simply. 

“Then why didn’t you just say so, you berk?” John laughed, sweeping Sherlock up into a deep kiss.

“I just did,” Sherlock said in between kisses, making both of them laugh harder.

“Let’s get married. Tomorrow, if Mycroft can swing it.”

“He is the British government⎯I’m sure he can.”

John laughed again, twining his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and kissing him over and over, barely pausing for air. “Oh, shit,” John exclaimed into Sherlock’s mouth.

“What?”

“Rings! We’d need rings before we got married.”

Sherlock blushed a bit and said, “I might have taken care of that already.”

“You did?” John’s smile was small and gentle, not mocking at all.

Sherlock squirmed out of bed and padded over to the bureau, where he rummaged about a bit before returning to bed, flicking on the small bedside lamp as he did. In his hand, he had a small red box. John was watching his every move with a smile that was growing broader (and more watery) with each moment. “I took the liberty of purchasing these not long after we came back from Sussex,” he said, opening the box. Inside were two plain white-gold bands. John sucked in a breath and reached out to run his fingers over them both before plucking out the larger ring, his ring, inspecting it from every angle.

He looked at Sherlock, eyes glistening a bit. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

Sherlock squirmed a bit. “I was unsure if you would agree to marrying me,” he replied in a rush.

John shook his head in fond exasperation. “I’d already accepted your feather, but you were afraid I’d turn you down?”

Sherlock wouldn’t meet his eye.

“Hey,” John murmured, reaching out to tip Sherlock’s chin up. “I love you, remember? I’m not upset you didn’t ask before⎯I just am sad that you felt you couldn’t.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” John leaned in and kissed him tenderly. “Except, maybe, for showing me these before we’re allowed to wear them.”

“We’re already married, John. All that’s left is the technicalities.”

John grinned. “In that case, then.” He dropped his ring into Sherlock’s palm and took Sherlock’s from the box, twisting it nervously in his hands. He held out his left hand, palm up, waiting for Sherlock to take it. When Sherlock caught on and extended his hand, John captured it gently and looked down, swallowing hard before looking up and meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “I love you,” John said softly, beginning to push the ring onto Sherlock’s finger. “I’m so glad I met you⎯you’re the best part of me and you’ve saved me in more ways than you will ever know. I will never leave you, nor will I ever stop loving you. I’m honored to give myself to you.” With that last word, he settled the ring at the base of Sherlock’s finger, allowing himself a moment to stroke his finger over the small circle of gold. 

Sherlock gently turned his hand over until he had John’s left hand held securely between his. He paused for a moment, John’s ring just barely on his finger, and caught his breath. Then he looked up and was mesmerised by the love and joy shining through John’s every pore. “I never thought I would find anyone who would love me and accept me for who I am,” he said as he pushed the ring down John’s finger. “And I am so grateful for you. I literally cannot express how much I love you⎯there are no words in any language to do so. I could never leave you as you’re bound up in my very cells. I am honored to give myself to you,” he finished as he blinked down at the ring he had just put on John’s finger.

John reached out and cupped his face in his hands, kissing him tenderly at first, and then more passionately as fire swept through them. Their bodies crashed together, inevitable as the tide, and then they slept.

 

Sherlock woke after only a few hours and watched John as he slept on, memorising every millimeter of John’s skin, the way John’s breath felt when it brushed against his shoulder or his throat, the sound of John’s heart as he rested his ear over his heart. Eventually, John stirred a bit and blinked awake, smiling as he saw Sherlock watching him.

“Morning,” John said, the last syllable lost in a yawn. Sherlock kissed his cheek and settled his head back on John’s chest, staring at the ring he had placed on John’s finger mere hours ago. He reached out and laced his fingers through John’s. John hummed in contentment and settled his free hand in Sherlock’s hair, combing the tangles from the unruly curls.

“My father was human,” Sherlock said abruptly, apropos of nothing. “But Mother gave him her feather, and they were bondmates. In human terms, they were married.”

“Just like us.”

“Yes, quite. But it wasn’t quite the same. Mother never changed him and he…he died. He was murdered in our garden when Mother and Mycroft were out. When they flew home, I was sitting next to his body, soaked in his blood, crying and asking him to wake up. I was two and a half years old.”

John pulled him closer. 

“I did the same thing for you,” Sherlock whispered in a rush. “I held you and I begged you not to leave me, to wake up, and you didn’t and then you were gone and all I had left of you was your blood on my clothes.”

“Shhhh, shhhh,” John whispered, running one hand firmly up and down Sherlock’s shaking back. “I’m not ever going to leave you again.”

John waited until Sherlock calmed before he asked, gently, “Why didn’t your mother do for your father what she did for me?”

“They thought they would have more time. And in those days, Mother did not have the power she does now. You have to remember that this was over a hundred years ago⎯Mother was only able to change you now because she had learned the skill to do so.”

“Did she reincarnate him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. She won’t speak of it.”

“I’m so sorry, love.” 

Sherlock shrugged a bit. “It was a long time ago. Mycroft hardly remembers him⎯I don’t really remember anything of him at all. Mother doesn’t talk about him, either. I think she got there too late, and by the time she arrived, he was already gone and gone for too long for her to do anything to save him.”

They laid in silence for a while, each lost in the thought of what had nearly happened to them, if the Morrighan had not been so merciful, if she had not arrived when she did, if Sherlock had not given John his feather when he did.

The silence was broken by Sherlock’s mobile’s strident ring. He rolled his eyes and snatched up the phone, rolling his eyes again at John when he saw Mycroft’s name on the caller ID. “Mycroft,” he said in greeting, “As ever, you have impeccable timing. I’ve a favor I need⎯”

“Is John with you?” Mycroft interrupted.

“Yes.”

“Put me on speaker. You both must hear this.”

Sherlock pushed a button on his phone and then laid on the bed between them. “Go ahead,” he said, shrugging his shoulders at John’s quizzical look.

“You both need to come to the house. Immediately. Don’t take a cab. Doctor Watson, can you fly?”

John’s eyes widened. “I’ve never done it before, so no.” _How does he know about that?_ he mouthed at Sherlock, who shrugged.

“Why do we need to⎯” Sherlock began, only to be interrupted again.

“I’ll send the team for you. Sherlock, you know the password. Do not open the door until you’ve confirmed that it is my team.”

“Why is this necessary?” John asked, already casting about for his clothes and his gun.

There was a long pause before Mycroft replied, “I have it on good faith that a James Moriarty has returned.”

John and Sherlock both froze. 

“But he’s dead,” John spluttered. 

“So were you, and now you’re not. I’ll see you presently.” Mycroft rang off, leaving the two of them to stare at each other, wide-eyed. 

“Sherlock⎯”

“I don’t understand it either, John. But get dressed⎯his team will be here in five minutes.”

Six minutes later, they were bundled into the back of a heavily armored vehicle and on their way to Mycroft’s home, hands entwined on John’s sturdy thigh.

Whatever was coming, they would face it together.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this part was "SHERlocked" from the _Sherlock Season 2_ soundtrack by David G. Arnold and Michael Price.

Sherlock and John beat Greg into the house by five minutes. “Mycroft?” Greg called as he ran up the stairs, following the sound of voices. “What is it? You’d never send a car for me to bring me home unless it was something important⎯” He broke off when he burst through to the study, blinking in shock at John Watson, who was standing right in front of him. “You’re…you’re dead.” Greg reached out, fumbling for the back of a chair, gripped it tightly. He would not give in to the watery feeling that manifested itself in his knees. He would not faint. Would not. It was only John, who had been dead and now was standing in front of him, expression full of concern. 

“I thought he knew.” John was saying to Mycroft even as he was gently guiding Greg to sit in the chair he was clinging to, checking his pulse as he did, “About⎯I thought you’d told him.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened a bit as he shook his head sharply at John, every centimetre of his lover’s body screaming at John to _stop talking right now._

Greg frowned. “Tell me what?”

“Nothing.” Mycroft looked down at his shoes for a second before meeting Greg’s eyes. His expression softened as he said, “Gregory⎯”

“No,” Greg held up one hand, expression hard. “Explain this to me. I went to John’s funeral. I saw Sherlock covered in his blood not ten minutes after his death. How is it that he’s standing here?”

The other three men exchanged looks. 

Greg huffed and stood up. “Right. Apparently I’m not to know, then.”

“Gregory⎯”

John, ever perceptive, cut in quickly. “It’s not important right now. There’s something else going on here that we need to get to the bottom of.”

“Not important?” Greg spluttered. “I’d say learning how you came back from the fucking dead is pretty damned important!”

“Moriarty is back,” Mycroft said into the spaces between their words, making all three of them stop and stare at him.

“Say it again,” Sherlock ordered. 

“Moriarty is alive.”

“How?” John asked. “We all three saw him die.”

“There never was a body,” Greg said quietly. “I wrote the report on that case. There was no body recovered at the scene.”

Mycroft, Sherlock, and John all looked down at their feet for a moment. No one said anything for several heartbeats.

“Will someone please just tell me what the fuck is going on!” Greg half-shouted, frustration making him pace.

All three looked up at him, startled. 

Greg kept pacing, not looking at anyone as he snapped, “First, John’s come back from the dead, and good for you, mate, I’m dead chuffed to see you and you’ve made Sherlock smile again, which is more than what he’s done since you were gone. Second, a master criminal, who, from what I managed to get out of the three of you, nearly killed John and Sherlock and did kill a slew of people when he blew up a block of flats is now also apparently alive. And third,” and here he stopped and looked Mycroft dead in the eye. “And third, you’re keeping something from me.”

Mycroft’s mouth tightened, but he held Greg’s gaze. 

John and Sherlock were looking between the two of them, shocked. 

“You mean to say you’ve not⎯” John started, but a look from Mycroft made him swallow the words before they were given voice. 

“I won’t deny it,” Mycroft said softly. 

Greg turned his face away, mouth twisting in an unhappy line. 

“But I did it and will continue doing it for your protection.” 

Greg laughed bitterly. “I trust you, Mycroft. I have no secrets from you. You’re a Holmes, I wouldn’t have them anyway, but I give you everything freely. And here you are, telling me that I’m not to be trusted with yours.”

Sherlock and John shared a quick glance and then retreated, closing the door quietly behind them as they headed to the kitchen to make tea (for John, Sherlock would not drink the cup John made for him) and to think (Sherlock about what to do about Moriarty, John about how to keep Sherlock alive and sane while they set about finding the bastard).

Mycroft saw them go and let himself slump, looking smaller and far older than Greg had ever seen him, and it made something pang deep inside Greg’s heart. Mycroft should never, had never, looked like that ever before, and it scared him to think that this man who kept himself so carefully under control could be vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” Greg said. 

“For what? You’re right, I have kept something from you, but it really and truly is for your own protection.” Mycroft’s hands gripped the back of the sofa, knuckles white. “I want to tell you, and I will, someday. I swear that to you. Believe me when I tell you that it has everything to do with me and nothing to do with you. Please, tell me you believe that.”

Greg took a deep breath. “I believe you,” he said, heavily, “and I trust that you will tell me whatever this is someday. But⎯” he held up a hand as Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, “but I want to know how the hell John Watson is alive. I saw Sherlock covered in his blood. I saw what losing him did to your brother. And now I’ve seen him standing here in this study, taking my pulse. How?”

Mycroft sighed. “I cannot tell you that.”

“Mycroft⎯”

“It is part of my secret, and if I told you, someone could get that information from you, no matter how much you wanted to keep it secret.”

They were silent a moment, each thinking of Moriarty and torture and confessions screamed out in the long black agony of pain.

Mycroft crossed the room and gathered Greg into his arms. “I only want to keep you safe. You can’t tell what you don’t know. When all of this is over, I swear, I will tell you.”

“Would you bring me back, too?”

“Hmm?”

“If I died. Would you bring me back?”

Mycroft’s sigh stirred the hairs resting on Greg’s forehead. “I did not bring John back from the dead.”

“Would you bring me back?” Greg’s tone was more forceful as he pulled back to look Mycroft in the eye.

The power imbued in the three repetitions sent shivers up Mycroft’s spine. He heard his own voice come as if from a great distance as he answered, “There is no power that exists in this universe that would prevent me from bringing you back. I would not allow anything or anyone to stop me.” 

Greg looked at him, a little wild, a little strange, as he whispered, “Good,” and then claimed Mycroft’s lips with a snarl, staking his claim on his lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I am so sorry about the delay! Updates may be a bit sporadic until after May 11, which is when I graduate. I will do my best to get part xii up before then, but it may be a bit.


	12. Interlude--Moriarty

There is a name that has been whispered in the shadows for two centuries. No one dares speak it aloud, for fear of bringing his attention. 

He was a man, just a man, an evil, twisted man who was born of Euryale, sister of the Medusa. He sprang from her fatherless and peerless and listened with fascination to his mother’s stories of blood and war and the endless screams of men.

He haunted the footsteps of Sherlock Holmes, the one son of the Morrighan he could touch. The elder son was untouchable, lofty and secure in his place in the government. No, Sherlock was easier. Sherlock would come and play his little games, that little dog of a doctor at his heels, earnest and far, far too in love with Sherlock to truly question why Sherlock and the man in the shadows were drawn together.

***

The first time he died, he fell over a waterfall. Sherlock was unscathed.

The second, from a gunshot wound given to him by Sherlock’s fucking doctor.

The third, it was from old age. Sherlock never found him in that life.

 

And then, after more deaths that were largely unremarkable, he died because he had caught Sherlock’s heart in his hand and wrapped it in Semtex. 

Even the son of Euryale could not forsee how much it _hurt_ to have the wrath of the Morrighan and her sons tear him to pieces.

 

***

“Mother, may I ask you a favour?”

There was nothing but black, deep and endless as the bottom of the ocean or the end of the stars.

James Moriarty stood, undaunted, waiting patiently for his mother’s response (she always took her time, especially when he asked a favour of her), hands clasped behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels.

He wanted to live again, as he was when he stood at the pool watching the great Sherlock Holmes think his doctor had betrayed him. This version of Sherlock was too good to pass up⎯the thought of prolonging the detective’s pain as he slowly, painstakingly ripped away everything from Sherlock’s life was delicious. He grinned into the blackness, watching for his mother. Ordinarily, he would have been content to wait until she saw fit to give him life again, but this life was far too good to have been lost so quickly. 

Besides, he knew she wanted to hurt the Morrighan and her sons as badly as he did. No one but Mother was allowed to hurt him in such a way. 

Mother appeared, abruptly as always, in front of him, hair wild and moving as if there was a slight breeze. No air stirred here in this place of waiting, where he came each time he died. 

“What do you require?” she asked, lips opening just enough to let the sound escape.

“I want to go back, now, to punish them.”

“Exactly as you are?”

He nodded.

She stared through him, smiled a feral smile full of sharp teeth. “I see,” she said.

“They hurt me, Mother. I wish to seek revenge in this life, in this body.”

“And you want to play with them, too, draw it out, make it more…delicious.”

A small smirk. 

She reached out and touched her hand to his cheek. The burn of her hand was cold as the center of the deepest points of the ocean. He pressed it harder to his cheek, relishing the pain. She would do as he asked. She always did. 

“I will assist you where I can. I want to watch them burn.”

“All of them?”

“All.”

They grinned at each other.

“Go,” she said, pushing him away. “Go, and enjoy.”

“Oh, I will,” he replied as the world warmed and spun into colour. 

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of London. He pulled out his mobile, typed a few words, sent them off. Within the hour, he would have precise intelligence on the Holmeses, the little mongrel Doctor, and their mother.

 

When his email chirped at him forty-five minutes later, he was halfway through his second martini. Lazily, he clicked on the attachments, and sat up straighter when he saw what the Morrighan had done to the Doctor. And then, his eyes grew wide as he saw the pictures of Mycroft (and what a thorn in his side _that_ all-seeing git was) with Sherlock’s pet DI, kissing in Mycroft’s study. 

He gave a little gleeful chuckle. Oh, this was too perfect. Now he had so much more to play with! The two Holmes brothers, brought low by love. They would be clumsy, stupid, slow, and far too eager to protect their little pets. He sat back and started planning. This would have to be done carefully. He did not want to incur the Morrighan’s wrath until he was ready to deal with her. Mother would help with, he was sure. 

 

Finally, an hour later, he sent off a text to Mycroft, a taunt and a challenge all at once.

Then, he set off to find some ravens (not the Morrighan’s other children, no, that would be later), and planted them carefully in front of 221b (how plebian!) and Mycroft’s front door.

Now, to wait for the next move in the game. He crept back to his own home, crawled into bed, and dreamed of the screams of loss and the joy of ripping people apart piece by piece until there was nothing left of them but a snivelling mess of a human being. 

***

The next morning, Sherlock opened the door to 221b and nearly stepped on the neatly decapitated raven artfully displayed on the stoop. There was a small puddle of jewel bright blood in the two-inch gap between the head and neck. He recoiled back with a gasp of horrified disgust, followed by a wave of relief that it was not one of Mother’s other children.

John nearly collided with him, having heard his gasp and come running down the last few steps. “What? What is it?”

Sherlock couldn’t answer him, still fighting back the inexplicable urge to vomit at the implications of this little message. John gently pulled him to one side so he could see, too. His jaw worked as he took in the sad tableau, and then he swallowed thickly. “It wasn’t one of⎯”

“No.”

“Right. There’s that, at least.” John crouched down and carefully, terribly gently picked up the corpse, laying it in the bin with care. He stood for a moment looking down at the bird before turning back to Sherlock, who already had his mobile out and was furiously texting. 

“Mycroft had one, too,” Sherlock said, exchanging a worried glance with John.

“It’s got to be from Moriarty.”

“Yes.”

“And what does it mean?” John’s hand was flexing at his side as they strode down Baker Street, heading for the Tube.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said shortly, but he pulled John in close to him, lacing their fingers together so tightly that both their knuckles turned white.

John said nothing, but clung on just as tightly.


	13. Chapter 13

After Moriarty’s message, none of them heard from him for weeks. It set Sherlock’s teeth on edge, made John jumpy; Mycroft developed a line between his brows from frowning, Greg a habit of glancing askance at his lover and getting no response in return. 

Greg also, for reasons he didn’t quite understand, started carrying around the long, black feather he’d been keeping on his nightstand in his pocket whenever he went out. If Mycroft noticed it was missing from its usual resting place, he said nothing. 

***

And then came the Woman.

Sherlock flirted and preened in front of her, winning her over to his side without giving away his own endgame. He and John spent the entirety of that case with their rings hidden on chains around their necks, the better to deceive her with. It worked⎯she fell for the ruse, for the love of seducing (or so she thought) the great Sherlock Holmes, and it would prove to be her downfall. 

Too clever, John would say later, after Sherlock returned from his meeting with Mycroft and the now disgraced Woman. She was too clever, and she got tangled up in her game. 

“She was working for him,” Sherlock stated, fingers tight on his violin bow. 

He felt the moment John processed that statement, the weight of his gaze steady on the back of Sherlock’s head. “Moriarty?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Shit,” John breathed. In the reflection from the window, Sherlock watched him grip the back of his chair, head lowered for a moment before he looked up and their eyes met in the reflection from the window. “How much did she know?”

“Nothing more than we already knew. I will have to ask Mycroft if he had her interrogated before he released her.”

John was quiet, mulling over outcomes, exit strategies. Irene had the mind of a strategist, she would have made plans for every eventuality. She and Sherlock were very much alike⎯John knew there was no way she would not have planned for this outcome. 

“Will you find her?” John asked an hour later, interrupting Sherlock’s post-case write-up.

“Perhaps.” Sherlock wouldn’t quite meet his eye, and John knew there was something being planned there. 

“She may be a valuable ally. And she liked you.”

“She has nothing to lose anymore.”

“That’s what makes her dangerous. She might be willing to work against the man who took everything away from her.”

“Mmm.” 

John leaned down and kissed his husband deeply. “Just think about it,” he said when they parted. “And come to bed at a decent hour, please. You’ve not slept properly in days.”

 

It took Mycroft far too long to realise what exactly Gregory had said to him the night Gregory learned John was not dead. He had asked “would you bring me back,” invoking the power of three with his repetition of the question until Mycroft was all but bound to answer him. The question was not “How” or “Could” but “Would”⎯a more declarative statement wrapped in the guise of a question. And then there had been the wild look in Gregory’s eyes as he claimed Mycroft’s mouth with his own in an almost animalistic manner, snarling and biting, fingers digging deep into Mycroft’s shoulders. 

This realisation meant only one thing⎯Gregory must have some suspicion as to Mycroft’s true nature, if he didn’t outright know. There were only three people who could have told him, and that day, all but one of them was accounted for for the entire day. It was impossible to keep track of Mummy, and if he had tried, she likely would never spoken to him again⎯the breach of trust unforgivable. No, Gregory knew something, but what, exactly, he knew remained to be seen. 

When Gregory came home that night, Mycroft was sitting in his chair in the study, hands steepled under his chin, eyes fixed on a point far in front of him. He didn’t look up when Gregory walked in, dropped a kiss to the top of his head, talked about his day. The words floated over Mycroft’s head, drifting through his consciousness but not planting themselves there. 

He remained distant all evening, not noticing Gregory’s frowns or worried glances. Finally, as they settled into bed, Mycroft curled on his side facing away from his lover, Gregory flat on his back staring at the ceiling, Gregory finally blurted, “What is wrong with you?”

Mycroft’s shoulders tensed under the duvet. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’ve not listened to a word I’ve said since I walked in the door, you’re acting all….Holmes-y right now with the standoffishness and the denying that you need touch and comfort like the rest of us ordinary folk.”

That made Mycroft’s breath stutter in his chest. Was it really so obvious that he was different? That he held himself away because of who and what he was?

“Hey,” Gregory’s hand was warm on his shoulderblade. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What if it was true?”

“What if what was true?”

“What if I wasn’t ordinary?”

Gregory laughed long and loud before he got himself under control long enough to gasp, “Oh, love, I know you’re not ordinary. You’re a Holmes⎯that automatically makes you extraordinary.”

Only slightly mollified, Mycroft rolled over so he was facing Gregory and said, “But, truly, what if I weren’t ordinary? What would you do then?”

Gregory sobered. “What’s brought this on?”

Mycroft sighed. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Gregory frowned, cupping his cheek with one hand. “Does this have something to do with what you’re keeping from me? ‘Cause I’ve not forgotten that.”

Mycroft mustered a smile and lied. “It’s really nothing.” At Gregory’s look, he added, “Truly. I would tell you if it was.”

“Except for your secret.” Gregory’s voice was flat.

“Yes,” Mycroft said slowly, quietly, “Except for that.”

Gregory abruptly sat up and switched on the light. He sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, knuckles standing out in sharp relief where he clutched the sheets, head down. Mycroft had not seen him look so defeated in a long time, and that realisation brought a thick lump to his throat. 

“Gregory⎯” he reached out, intending to stroke his hand down the other man’s tense arm, but the chill, the _despondency_ in Gregory’s voice froze him in his place.

“What if I knew? What would change between us?”

Mycroft’s heart, which had been located somewhere around his toes, now surged into his throat, choking him. 

“I’ve trusted you for a long time. I’ve held my tongue about this damned secret of yours because I thought you knew best in that regard. But now, now I don’t know. John Watson _died_ , he fucking _died_ and your brother was devastated and now John’s back and I don’t know what to think about that. There’s a madman on the loose who you, Sherlock, and John all claim was dead, too, and now he’s alive again. So now I start to wonder about some things. Some things that aren’t adding up for me. And then you go on about this secret you can’t tell me, of all people, the person who fucking lives with you, who sleeps in your bed, who I trust completely. Now I think maybe I shouldn’t trust you at all.”

Mycroft was stunned. There was no other word in his vocabulary to describe the maelstrom of feelings Gregory’s speech had sent swirling through his entire body. “What⎯” his lips were dry, so he wet them and tried again. “What do you want to know?”

That was the wrong thing to say. Gregory turned to face him, eyes blazing. “What do I want to fucking know? Everything! I want to know what you’re hiding from me, how the hell John is alive, why there was a dead bird outside my office this morning⎯”

That drew Mycroft up. “A dead bird? What kind of bird?”

Gregory blinked at him, startled out of his tirade. “A black one. Raven? Crow? I don’t know, I’m not an orinthwhatsit. It was decapitated and sitting right outside my office door when I got in. Cameras had malfunctioned, no one saw anything.”

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Gregory was watching him warily. “If it was a warning,” Gregory said, “I didn’t get what it was warning me about. I almost rang Sherlock about it, see if he had any ideas.”

“All it was was the bird? No note, nothing else?”

“Just the bird. Cleaning staff came by and disposed of it, before you ask.”

“Damn,” Mycroft breathed.

Now Gregory was frowning at him again. “Is it a warning? No, you won’t answer that either will you? Never mind Greg, he’s just as stupid as the rest of the world. No need to know what you know about some fucking creepy thing that happened right outside my fucking office. Well, let me tell you something, Mycroft Holmes. I’m not as stupid as you think. I know a few things myself.”

“I never have thought you to be stupid, Gregory, and if I’ve made you feel that way⎯”

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

“What do you know?”

“I’ve studied a bit of mythology myself. The dead birds, the black feathers, they all point to the wrath of the Morrighan. But she is just a myth. Someone is playing a joke on us, and I’ll figure it out somehow. Get Sherlock on it.”

Mycroft blinked in confusion. What were they teaching people about Mummy? Mummy would never kill her own kind to send a message. Then Mycroft remembered something that had been bothering him. “You asked me if I would bring you back.”

“What?”

“The night John came back. You asked me if I would bring you back if you died. You said it three times. Why?”

Gregory licked his lips nervously. “I want you to tell me how John is alive.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Gregory, please.”

“I have dreams,” Gregory said, apropos of nothing. “I dream of you and I being separated and it hurts more than anything has a right to. It’s enough to stop my heart, it hurts so deeply. I see you standing over my body, and you are…magnificent in your rage. It scares me, sometimes, to think of the power you must wield. If anyone could bring someone back from the dead, it would be you. But I don’t know how someone would make that decision, so I asked if you would, not if you could. And I have my own superstitions, too. I know about the power of three, and I thought that maybe you did, too. So I asked you three times to see if that worked and it did.

“But I find I can’t bring myself to ask you three times about your secret. It’s apparent I’m not worthy enough or you don’t trust me enough with it, so I won’t even try to compel you.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you⎯”

“Then what is it? What can possibly be so bad that you can’t tell me? Believe me, I won’t leave you over your secret, but I will leave if you can’t trust me. Trust is all we have, Mycroft. I trust you not to hurt me, to keep my secrets. It kills me to think you can’t trust me with yours.”

“If I told you, you would leave. Not because I forced you to, but because you would sacrifice yourself in the name of something you don’t understand. And if I told you, someone” he didn’t say the name Moriarty, but Gregory heard it loud and clear, “would kill you to learn it. I cannot put you in harm’s way. Can you understand that? Can you understand that I am protecting you by not telling you?”

“I don’t need protection! In case you’ve forgotten, I am a police officer, and I am perfectly capable of protecting myself.”

“I’m not just talking about your physical self.” Mycroft said cryptically.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Mycroft dropped his eyes. Gregory stood, roughly jerking on his trousers.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft asked, panicked.

Gregory jammed his arms into his shirt, did up the buttons without looking at them. “Home,” he said shortly.

“This is your home.”

“No, it’s yours. I live here, but I can’t call it home right now. I need some space to think and breathe.”

“Are you…are you leaving me?” Mycroft tried to sound flippant, like the answer didn’t matter, but instead he sounded like he had when he was so young and Father had just died and he was scared and small and trying to be brave for Mummy and Sherlock. 

Gregory looked up from his belt buckle, met his eyes and softened a bit. “No,” he said. “I’m not leaving you, but I think we both need some space. I feel like I don’t know you at all, Mycroft, not now. There’s too many secrets and weird happenings and I just need time to process it. Please. Don’t follow me around for a few days. I need to learn to trust you again.”

That hurt more than Mycroft wanted to admit. “All right,” he agreed. “Can I still contact you?” He was stiff and formal as he had not been around Gregory since they first met. He didn’t know how to react to a Gregory who was hurt and confused and it must have showed because Gregory, bless him, saw it and leaned in and kissed him terribly gently.

“It’s not a breakup,” Gregory said, his hand on the doorknob to their, well, now just Mycroft’s, bedroom. “I think we both need space. You’re not used to trusting people, and I’m pushing you too hard.”

“Gregory⎯”

“Good night, Mycroft,” Gregory said and slipped out the door, closing it behind him with a terribly final sounding click.

It took five full minutes for Mycroft to realise Gregory had never said if he could contact him. He opened his mobile and texted Anthea.

_Put very discreet surveillance on DI Lestrade. I want a full report every four hours and to know instantly if anything happens to him.  
⎯MH_

_Yes, sir. Is everything all right?  
⎯A_

Mycroft’s fingers hesitated over the keys for a long moment.

_I dearly hope so.  
⎯MH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow, 8900 hits? Thank you all so much for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For 's prompt [here](http://nickelsandcoats.livejournal.com/122267.html) at my shuffle meme post. She asked for #103, which was, for this part, "To Dartmoor" from the _Sherlock Season 2_ soundtrack by David G. Arnold and Michael Price.

Mycroft woke to an empty, cold bed and sighed softly. When he finally went down to the kitchen for his tea, Mummy was at the table, watching him.

“Oh, child,” she said, standing and folding him in her arms. “I am so terribly sorry.”

“Don’t tell me that you tried to warn me.”

She pulled back and stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I can’t tell him, Mummy. If he knew that I was all but immortal, that he could spend his life with me but I could not do the same, he would leave in order to protect me from some future pain. And I will not tell him because I am selfish. I am finally happy, and I want to keep that happiness for as long as I can. Is that so wrong?”

“If it means breaking his trust, yes, dear child, it is.”

Mycroft blinked and looked away. “I don’t want what happened to Father to happen to him. Knowing makes him a target, and I can’t protect him from everything, even if I try.”

“Have you told him this?”

“Told him what?”

“What happened to your father. Why that makes you react the way you do.”

“No, I’ve not said anything.”

“If you won’t tell him about your true self, if you won’t bond with him, then at least tell him about your father. He will understand you better, then.”

“Why did you bring John back?”

“Is that the question you truly want to ask me?”

Mycroft cleared his throat, shuffled his feet a bit. “No,” he admitted. “I do wish to know, though.”

“Once you have the courage to ask of me the question you truly want answered, I will tell you.”

“I cannot ask you that question, Mummy. He left.”

“And he will be back. He loves you so deeply that he cannot articulate it. You are the same. Stop being so stubborn and trust him.”

“Mummy⎯”

“I have to go, dear. There are other things happening that you and your brother need to hear of, but not just now. Remember what I’ve said to you.”

“I always do.”

“Then heed my advice, Mycroft, and stop simply listening. One day, you will wish you had acted instead of listened. I will not speak of this again.”

And then she was gone, leaving Mycroft to stare down, unseeing, into the canister of loose tea. For some reason, his vision was blurred.

 

***

After Henry Knight had left their flat to head back to Dartmoor and its supposed hound, Sherlock turned to John, changed, and fluttered around his head, croaking out a joyful “Let’s go!”

John’s smile was a wry twist of his mouth. “What, are you proposing we fly there?”

“Well, yes.”

“We can’t do that, Sherlock. We need a car, for one thing, and luggage for another. I can’t imagine that there are many places to hide in that small village, so we can’t exactly just fly in. Besides,” he said, holding up a finger to forestall Sherlock’s protests, “I don’t think I’m up to flying that far anyway.” And he wasn’t⎯while the Morrighan had changed him, his shoulder still had a bullet wound, and long flights caused it to stiffen and seize up. 

“Oh, all right,” Sherlock grumped, changing back and flinging himself onto the sofa. “I’ll hire us a car and get the train tickets, you go pack.”

As John’s footsteps faded away, Sherlock called out, “Oh, and bring your gun.”

 

Baskerville was not what John was expecting. For one, it was far too easy to penetrate the base, even if they did think that Sherlock was actually Mycroft. Second, it was too…quiet. He expected much more activity, more people, more experiments. But the few scientists they did interact with were as cagey as if they were in a TV show, and that made John’s teeth set on edge. He was hyper-aware of what could happen to him, and Sherlock and Mycroft, if their true identities were ever revealed, and ending up in a lab like this one was only one of the nicer possibilities. Sherlock seemed to notice his discomfort, took them the Henry’s soon after. Their plan to meet later that evening to head to the moor in place, Sherlock and John returned to their room at the Cross Keys, where John sank down in the small chair while Sherlock paced.

“What do you know about hellhounds?” Sherlock asked on his fifth lap of the small room. 

John blinked. “Like in myth and legend?” 

“No, like in the comics, of course I meant like those in myth and legend. Do keep up.”

“I….don’t know much. I know they tend to haunt lonely roads and such.”

Sherlock huffed and kept moving. “All of the myths concerning hellhounds describe them as large dogs with fiery eyes. Many of them are supposed to haunt un-travelled roads, moors, fields, mountains.”

“So do you think we’re dealing with some mythological creature and not an escaped Baskerville experiment?”

“I don’t know, John. I am merely exploring all of the options. There is not enough data yet to make a conclusion.”

John noticed the slight tremble in his husband’s limbs and stood, holding him close, letting his slow, steady breathing calm Sherlock’s racing heart. Sherlock buried his face into John’s hair and murmured, “I hope it is just an escaped experiment. Mother’s stories of the hellhounds still give me nightmares to this day.”

 

Later, after their trip to the moor, Sherlock was sat in one of the chairs in front of the fire, the diners’ knives and forks creating an inescapable and unbearable cacophony of scraping screeching scratches that assaulted his ears and made him hunch down in the chair. John returned from getting Henry settled and started in on some Morse code he may have seen out there. John was far too calm for this. Mother’s stories were real⎯there was a gigantic hellhound out there, waiting to get at them, and why wasn’t John more worried? His fear must have shown, because John’s brow was furrowed and he was leaning forward in his chair, ready to reach out to him. This was unbearable. Sherlock was supposed to be the strong one, the one who was touched by nothing, not John. John did not need to comfort him. They were only stories, even if his mind thought they were true. Surely there were no hellhounds really left to wander a moor⎯Mother would know about it. Why couldn’t he fool John into thinking that there was nothing wrong with him? He spouted off a deduction and then culminated his performance with alienating the only man he’d ever loved:

“I don’t have friends.”

John stood and walked away.

 _Fuck. That is not what I meant John, I **do** have one friend, and it’s you, but you’re so much more than a friend⎯you’re everything_ everything _to me and I don’t know how to say that now. How can I make this better, John? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please just come back._

But in the end, John was still gone and there was a case to solve. Dr Mortimer arrived at the bar just as Sherlock was heading up to their room. He sent John a text and waited for a response. Even for his anger (and rightly so), John agreed to speak to Dr Mortimer about Henry. Sherlock opened the door, changed, and settled himself into the middle of the bed, waiting to see if John would return. 

 

When John came back in to the room, Sherlock had changed and had his head tucked under his wing, sitting in the exact centre of the bed. John instantly changed and settled in next to him, laying one wing protectively over Sherlock’s quivering back. After a long while, Sherlock stirred just enough to whisper, “Would you change back and hold me like this? Please?”

John nudged his head against Sherlock’s and then flew off the bed, changed, and immediately climbed back in, scooping Sherlock up in one hand and bringing him in to his chest. Sherlock pressed himself as close as he could, tucking himself up under John’s lowered chin. John cupped his hand over his husband and held him there, curling his knees up as close as he could to enclose him in a cocoon. He fell asleep with Sherlock’s bird-fast pulse fluttering against his palm.

When he awoke in the morning, Sherlock had changed back and was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled, leaning down and kissing him gently. 

“Always,” John said, the echo of the promise he had made Sherlock in Sussex making Sherlock’s mouth twist a bit in a smile. But there was a lingering sadness in John’s voice, an echo of the hurt Sherlock caused last night, and Sherlock didn’t know how to fix what he had broken. John pulled away from him and shrugged on a coat, heading out the door without a single glance back to see if Sherlock followed. 

Sherlock stared after him for far longer than he would ever admit before he finally shook himself and headed off to see Henry. The continued use of the word “hound” was niggling at something deep in his brain. Perhaps Henry could shed more light on the matter, but that visit proved nearly useless. Sherlock himself suspected there was something preying on Henry⎯if there truly was a hound, he and Henry saw it last night, but John had not. The only commonality was the sugar Sherlock and Henry took in their coffee, and so this little side trip to see why Henry insisted on calling it a hound provided him with the chance to steal some of Henry’s sugar for further testing. 

Now, though, he needed to find John and apologise.

 

That afternoon, they were back at Baskerville. Sherlock, with a very slight tinge of regret, sent John into the lion’s den of his experiment, having dosed John’s coffee with Henry’s sugar. As he waited for John to get set in to the lab before beginning his experiment, Sherlock thought about Lestrade’s (he refused to call him Greg, even in his own head) strange answer to Sherlock’s needling question about Lestrade doing whatever Mycroft asked of him. Lestrade had vehemently denied it, and now Sherlock was left to wonder if he had left Mycroft, of all things. He wondered how Lestrade and Mycroft were handling this dispute of theirs, and to his horror, found himself wanting them to work things out. Damn his sentimental streak! John would be proud of him, he thought, for thinking of his brother and his friend’s (yes, he would admit that Lestrade was a friend, of sorts) well-being. He quickly squashed all thoughts of Mycroft’s relationship and focused on the task at hand. Holding up the small recorder, he played the growl through the sound system. On the monitors, John gasped and ran for the abandoned cage, locking himself in. John was a combat veteran⎯he would be fine. Still, Sherlock rang his mobile to see how John reacted to this kind of stress.

Oh.

John was upset, still coherent, but obviously scared nearly out of his wits. This was…not good. Sherlock immediately stood and ran for the lab, flipping on the lights and all but pulling John from his hidey-hole. 

“Can you walk?” Sherlock asked John urgently, heart pounding in his chest. If his little experiment had brought John’s limp back, he would not forgive himself, even though the experiment was of vital importance. 

“Yes, of course I can walk,” John retorted, looking almost affronted. He strode two steps behind Sherlock the entire way to Dr Stapleton’s lab, and then back out to the main laboratory so Sherlock could study the sugar under a microscope. Failing to find any trace of tampering, Sherlock threw them out of the lab and let himself wander through his mind palace, pushing aside the memories associated with John⎯couldn’t get distracted now, there was a case⎯seeking out a connection between HOUND and Liberty and In. When the answer came, it was like a lightning bolt struck him between his ribs, and he swirled out of the lab to find John and Dr Stapleton.

Sherlock’s connexion of HOUND to H.O.U.N.D. in Liberty, Indiana led them to the Major’s office, where Sherlock broke into the secured database just as easily as he cracked John’s passwords. As his eyes flicked over the data about the project streaming across the screen, he kept glancing at John’s reflection. John’s left hand was trembling ever so slightly where it gripped his right elbow. Not good. Time for a distraction, some action, something. 

Fortuitously, John’s mobile rang⎯apparently, Henry had shot at Dr Mortimer and was heading back to the Hollow. Excellent. Sherlock pulled out his mobile and dialled Lestrade, who was hopefully still in the village (Mycroft would have told him to keep an eye on him, of course Lestrade was still in the village). “Get to the Hollow. ... Dewer’s Hollow, now. And bring a gun.” He rang off and slid the phone back into his pocket. He broke into a fast jog, John just behind. No trace of a tremor or limp in the face of danger. Good.

Henry was nearly incoherent with fear and delusions when they reached him. Even as Sherlock tried to explain what had happened to Henry⎯“Remember now, Henry. You’ve got to remember what happened here when you were a little boy…. It wasn’t an animal, was it, Henry? Not a monster. A man.”

And then the hound appeared, just after Lestrade skidded into the Hollow. Sherlock gaped, torch shaking in his hand, as he stared at the red eyes, the enormous sharp teeth, the slavering mouth and dark fur. It _was_ a hellhound, straight out of Mother’s stories. He fought the urge to change, to grab John (and Lestrade) and fly away from the danger. He heard a noise behind him and half-turned, muscles tensed. _Oh, God, there’s another one,_ he thought as he squinted in the dark at the new threat.

No.

Not a hellhound.

Moriarty.

Sherlock had never wished for a gun so intensely in his life. But then he blinked, and charged the man, grappling with him before finally tearing off the mask to reveal the scientist, Frankland, who had been part of HOUND. He looked at the gas mask he’d just torn off the other man and struggled with his suddenly sluggish mind to put aside the triumphant sense of relief that it wasn’t Moriarty standing in front of him and to connect the reason for wearing a gas mask to the Hollow…It was the fog! The hallucinogen is in the fog! 

He shouted this to the others, barely registering Frankland’s frantic shouts to “Kill it!” Shots rang out, and the dog (for that’s all it really was) collapsed at their feet. 

Henry shouted at Franklin while Sherlock cast around the Hollow, still feeling as though Moriarty was watching them, even though he knew the drug was still affecting him. It was just paranoia, his sense of fear heightened by the fog. That was all.

When Frankland broke away from Henry, the dog growled again, and got to its feet. John fired two more shots, and then they were in hot pursuit of Falkland, who, despite working at Baskerville for years, managed to forget that there was a minefield surrounding the base and stepped on one, blowing himself up in the process. Pity. Sherlock would have liked to discuss the dispersion device he’d used for the fog. 

 

The next morning, John was up before him and already had their bags packed before Sherlock even stirred. When he did wake, he noticed John had left out clothes for him, and a few toiletries, with one of the bags left pointedly open. Sherlock showered, dressed, and packed the bag before heading off in search of his husband, who was just sitting down to breakfast. 

Sherlock fidgeted nervously with the ketchup packets as John, who was always far more clever than Sherlock gave him credit for, figured out just what exactly had transpired in Baskerville’s lab when he had been running from what he thought was the hellhound. 

“Oh God. It was you. You locked me in that bloody lab.” John was angry, but not to furious, not just yet.

“I had to. It was an experiment.”

“An experiment?!”

“Shhh.”

“I was terrified, Sherlock. I was scared to death.”

“I thought that the drug was in the sugar, so I put the sugar in your coffee, then I arranged everything with Major Barrymore.” Sherlock swallowed a bit of his coffee, then said, “I am sorry, John. It won’t happen again.”

John glared at him for a moment, then let his shoulders slump a bit in defeat. “Sherlock, I know it’s sometimes hard for you to remember, but I was a soldier, and I have been diagnosed with PTSD. I know you think it’s all in my head, and that you cured my limp and all, but you know I still have nightmares sometimes. It’s real to me, Sherlock. Doing things like what you did to me yesterday is extremely dangerous. I could have hurt someone, or had a relapse. Please, just promise me you’ll try to remember that next time.”

Sherlock had the grace to look ashamed as he murmured, “I am sorry. Truly.”

John leaned in and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “I know, and I accept your apology.” He looked down at his plate, swallowed the last few bites of eggs, and asked, “Did you pack your things?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, and the bag’s in the boot.”

John smiled, said, “Good. Let’s go home. I don’t fancy seeing more of the moors for a good long while.”

They stood and headed for the car. Just as Sherlock put his hand on the handle to open the door, he had the strongest feeling that someone was watching him from behind. He turned his head just slightly as he tugged on the door handle, but there was no one there. 

That feeling of being watched did not fade until he and John shut the door to 221b behind them hours later. He wouldn’t ask John if he’d had the same feeling⎯it was obvious from his banter that he hadn’t. Perhaps it was just the last of the drug leaving his system. 

_Yes, surely that’s what it was_ , he thought as he listened to John make tea. But the words rang hollow even in his own mind, and he shivered a bit in the warmth of the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue in this chapter comes from 's wonderful [transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/28352.html) of The Hounds of Baskerville.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally--the conversation! :)
> 
> The songs for this part were "The Resurrection Stone" from the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part II soundtrack and "Amy in the Tardis" from the Doctor Who: Season 5 soundtrack.

Mummy’s scream of rage and pain brought all three of them⎯Mycroft, Sherlock, and John⎯flying to her as fast as their wings would carry them.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Sherlock barked even as he changed back, feet landing in the clearing where Mother was kneeling in the dirt, hands frozen above a small black corpse.

John had his gun in one hand, at the ready, sharp eyes darting around the clearing, checking for potential threats and exits if needed. 

Mycroft, on the other hand, went to Mummy and then stopped short, huffing a breath that was mostly a sob through his nose. He clapped one hand over his mouth as if to keep himself from vomiting. 

John hurried over, joining Sherlock and Mycroft around their mother. “Let me see,” John said gently, as he reached out to cover the Morrighan’s hands and carefully move them aside so he could get a better look.

He grimaced and muttered, “Oh, no,” as the small black corpse of one of their brothers, another of the Morrighan’s children, was revealed. Its head was so mangled when it had been separated from the body that making an identification of who it had been was all but impossible. 

“Who did this?” Mummy’s voice was tight with rage. “Who killed your brother and desecrated his body in such a way?”

Her eyes met Mycroft’s, then Sherlock’s and John’s. Mycroft swallowed heavily and opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off. 

“His name is James Moriarty, Mother.”

“As in the man who held you and John hostage at that pool, the man who we killed?”

“Yes, Mother. We thought he was dead, but he is alive, somehow. We all have received similar…messages, but it’s never been one of our brothers or sisters.”

“Why have you not spoken to me of this?” Mummy was angry, angrier than any of them had seen her. Her eyes were flashing, and while she remained knelt on the ground, she was vibrating slightly with her barely-contained rage.

“We thought it best to see what we could learn on our own, Mummy,” Mycroft said softly. “We did not want to upset you⎯the situation has been under control. We’ve not had any contact with him for several months, now.”

“This could have been one of you!” The Morrighan screamed. “Do you understand what that would have done to me? Imagine it, for a moment, me kneeling over one of your corpses, not knowing how you were killed or who did this to you. And you said nothing because you did not wish to upset me?”

“Ma’am⎯” John said softly.

She rounded on him. “It’s Mother, Mum, or Mummy. Not ma’am. You married one of my sons, I made you one of my own⎯you can call me what you like.”

John nodded, and then continued, “There have been two other messages left like this for us⎯”

“Three.” Mycroft interrupted. “There have been three⎯Gregory had one outside his office at Scotland Yard.” John stared at him; Sherlock looked thoughtful and pursed his lips, but said nothing. 

“⎯And there has been no word from Moriarty since the last one. It’s like he’s waiting for Sherlock and I, or Mycroft, to make the next move. None of us know what he’s planning, but it must be something, and he must be making his move soon, if he’s moving to your other children, now.”

The Morrighan stood, drawing her feathered cloak close. “I will investigate this Moriarty’s background and lineage. He must have someone of my status in his family, or else he would not have the power to kill any of my children.” She stopped and looked at all of them, frowning slightly. “If he can reach others of your type, you must all be especially careful. Normal people cannot kill you, but can cause you harm. For him to have killed one of your brothers means he has power beyond any mortal man.” 

She bent back down and tenderly picked up the small corpse of her child. When she stood, she looked at all three of them in turn, lingering for a moment on Mycroft, before she melted into the shadows. 

As soon as she was gone, Sherlock rounded on his brother. “Where is Lestrade? Is he under protection?”

Mycroft sniffed. “Of course he is.”

“You’ve not told him, still, have you?” John asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“How do you know that?” Mycroft asked.

“Because he came to Baskerville and tried to tell us that he didn’t always do as you asked him to do,” Sherlock replied. “And he’s been staying at his own house for at least two weeks, if not a bit longer. Hard to tell with the jacket he was wearing.”

Mycroft’s expression twisted then, into something like grief and hollowness all at once. “How did you two do it? How can I tell him now? He can’t spend the rest of his life with me⎯he’s too honourable to accept a bond that would last all of my lives and only one of his.”

John’s jaw was dropping further and further. “You know, for a Holmes, you’re pretty fucking stupid,” he blurted, making Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. “Have you even asked Mum if she would turn Greg like she did for me?”

“That’s different.”

“How is it different? I was just as ordinary as Greg.”

“You and Sherlock are meant for each other. You need each other⎯you’re two halves of the same whole. Greg is⎯”

“Exactly the same to you!” John exclaimed. “He needs you, Mycroft, just as much as you need him. Besides, what will happen to you if anything happens to him?”

Mycroft blanched a bit, and John’s expression softened. “Listen, Mycroft, I bet he’s figured some of it out already. Doesn’t he have one of your feathers?”

“Yes, but Mummy gave it to him.”

“Well, Mum gave me two of Sherlock’s before I met him. And I saw him in dreams⎯well, not him him, but ravens and his eyes.”

“You did?” Sherlock interjected. “You never told me that.”

John gave his husband a small smile before turning back to his brother-in-law. “If you’re worried that he won’t take it well, don’t. He loves you too much. And I can guarantee that if he asks Mum, she would do for him what she did for me, hopefully under less traumatic circumstances.” John stared Mycroft down. “Don’t let it be under traumatic circumstances.”

Mycroft shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

“Go,” Sherlock said quietly. “Go and find him, now, today. _Talk_ to him.”

Without another word, Mycroft changed and flew away. Sherlock and John looked at each other⎯John gave a small shrug before he, too, changed and headed back home, Sherlock just behind him.

 

As soon as he got home, Mycroft changed and sent a text:

_Will you meet me at home? I must talk to you._

He paused for a moment, fingers hovering over the keys, and then added:

_Please.  
⎯MH_

It was an agonising ten minutes before his mobile chimed with Gregory’s response. 

_Forty-five minutes._

Mycroft settled into his chair and steepled his fingers, plotting out the course of the most difficult conversation he would ever have in his life. 

 

Exactly forty-five minutes after Gregory had responded, the man in question stood in the door to the study, watching Mycroft watch him. Gregory shoved his hands into his pockets, leaning against the door frame, assessing Mycroft’s mood and the seriousness of his request before he stood up straight and murmured, “Let it out.”

Mycroft raised a brow at him, hoping that Gregory could not see the arteries pulsing in his neck, the sweat on his brow, hear the pounding of his heart or the dull roar between his ears, understand the turmoil and dread that was waging war in his prodigious imagination.

“Whatever it is you need to say,” Gregory continued. “It’s got your shoulders up to your ears you’re so tense. Just say it. Are we over?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t lead me on. If you’re ending it, just say it. Please.”

“Gregory⎯” Mycroft half-stood, unsure of what to do or what to say. He flushed a bit and stood up, holding out one hand to Gregory, who hesitated for a mere fraction of a second before taking it. Both of them let out a small sigh when their fingers intertwined, and Mycroft allowed himself a long moment to indulge in the feeling before he tugged Gregory to the sofa, and sat.

“Thanks.” Gregory’s voice had a small tremble in it, but he swallowed hard and looked down at their linked hands.

“I literally do not know how to begin to tell you this,” Mycroft said after a moment. “I’ve spent the last forty-five minutes trying to think of the best way to tell you, but I simply cannot.”

“Then just say it. Don’t think about it so hard⎯just let it out.”

Mycroft let his voice have free reign, and he was surprised when “The feather you have? It’s mine,” was what he said first.

Gregory frowned, and then reached into his pocket, pulling it out carefully. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take it.” He held it out, but Mycroft’s rueful smile stopped him.

“No, no, it’s been given to you⎯it’s yours, now.”

The frown deepened, and now Gregory was looking at him as if he’d gone mad.

“I mean that literally, it is mine.”

“I’m sorry, love, but I’m totally lost here. You’re not a bird, so how can this be yours?”

Mycroft sighed and stood up, motioning to Gregory that he should stay where he was. He took a deep breath ( _nothing else for it,_ he thought) and changed. 

Gregory’s eyes widened and the feather he had been holding fluttered to the floor. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally managed to croak, “Okay⎯so you _are_ a bird. Um.”

Mycroft settled on the arm of the sofa, spreading his wings slightly before folding them in close to his body. He peered at Gregory from one blue eye, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Can you understand me?” Gregory asked, reaching out with one hand before checking himself. He curled his hand on the cushion instead, rubbing them against the brocade.

“Of course I can,” Mycroft said primly.

Gregory jumped. “You can talk?!”

Mycroft gave him an approximation of an eyeroll (it was all in how he moved his head and shoulders, Gregory would tell him later) and said, “Of course. And I am a raven, before you ask.”

“How can you do this?”

“It’s a long story, and it’s not comfortable to talk for long periods of time in this form. Let me change⎯”

“Wait! Can I…can I?” Gregory reached out again, as if he couldn’t help himself. Mycroft hovered above Gregory’s hand, which was palm down, until Gregory took the hint and turned his hand over so Mycroft could settle into his palm. Gregory slowly, carefully let his left index finger hover over Mycroft’s head before he gently stroked over his head and down his back. Mycroft closed his eyes and shivered a bit in pleasure. Gregory’s touch was gentle and so, so careful even as he grew bolder and let his fingers trail down to his wings, tracing the shape of each feather. Mycroft allowed himself to indulge in the feeling for minutes on end before he finally shook himself vigorously and took off so he could change. He kept his distance when he stood straight again, hardly daring to look Gregory in the eye. But Gregory surprised him, as he always did. He held out his hands to Mycroft and told him to “Come here, so I can touch you,” and Mycroft found himself unwilling to keep himself away.

“Go ahead,” Mycroft said after a moment of Gregory’s eyes raking over every centimetre of his face. “Ask your questions. And get comfortable⎯my story is long.”

Greogry’s face was a picture as he warred with himself over which question to ask first. Finally, he decided on, “Who are you, really?”

Mycroft gave him a wry smile. “Mycroft Holmes, the same I have always been. I am a son of the Morrighan.”

“A son? Wait⎯is Sherlock, is he?”

“He is, too. As is John.”

“John?”

“You asked me how John returned from the dead. It was Mummy’s doing.”

Gregory looked awed and confused and faintly angry all at once. “Explain,” he commanded, “And start from the beginning.”

And so Mycroft began to talk. He told Gregory about his father’s murder and how it nearly destroyed his mother. He explained who his mother was (although Gregory had got much of what he knew about the Morrighan from school, there were some inaccuracies⎯really, Mummy did not fly around and shoot fire from her eyes, where on earth did you hear that?) and how she could not die. He told Gregory part of the reason why he had one of Mycroft’s feathers and how important it was, especially now, to keep it on him at all times. (Mycroft did not say that the main reason Gregory had a feather was because Mycroft wanted to give him one himself, but knew in his heart of hearts that Gregory would refuse it. This was the closest he could get.) He glossed over John’s resurrection, claiming that he did not know how or why, only that Mummy had made that choice and so it was done.

Finally, his voice wore out and his story wound down. He had not told Gregory everything; in fact, he had told him nothing at all about his many lives, the fact that he was all but immortal, about feathers and bonding and what-if-you-died-before-me. 

Gregory was leaning back into the corner of the sofa, left ankle crossed on right knee, long fingers rubbing under his bottom lip. He considered Mycroft for a moment, and then said, “You’re not telling me everything. You’re still keeping something from me. God knows I’m glad you’ve told me this much, but still. What are you not telling me?”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh. “I forget sometimes, Inspector, how well you read me.” He stopped and levelled his gaze at Gregory, who did not even blink. “May I take a break?”

“Why don’t you want to tell me?”

“Because,” Mycroft said sadly, “when I tell you, you will leave, and I will be alone. There’s no one like you, Gregory, and I cannot bear to think of what my life would be like without you in it.”

Gregory looked at him, thunderstruck. “That’s the first time you’ve told me you love me,” he said, slowly, in response to Mycroft’s puzzled look. “Do you really think I will love you any less for whatever else it is you have to say?”

“I think you’ll love me too much to stay,” Mycroft snapped, standing up and stalking out the door to make tea. Gregory did not follow him to the kitchen, so Mycroft allowed himself a moment to fall apart, gripping the edge of the counter so tightly that it hurt.

When he came back, tea tray carefully balanced and set just so, Gregory was still in the same position he’d left him in, only now he was turned just a little further so he could look out the window. Mycroft sat the tray on the table and handed Gregory his cup and saucer without a word. They sipped their tea in silence, and when they were done, Gregory leaned forward and clasped Mycroft’s knee. “Tell me,” he implored. 

“Have you ever thought about immortality? About being reincarnated?”

Gregory frowned at him. “No, not really.”

“It is a most peculiar way to live. People you know die, and you never see them again. Ever. The world changes so much, and yet some parts stay the same. It is even more noticeable when the ones you rely on are gone.”

“Wait⎯you’re saying⎯”

“I have lived for a very, very long time, and it never gets easier to die and be reborn, only to do it all over again.”

“Sherlock too?”

“Yes, Sherlock too, and John, now.”

“My God.” Gregory breathed. “But that’s incredible. How much you must have seen and known!” He looked out the window again, gathering his wits after that stunning revelation. “But you would have told me that earlier. I mean, it’s stunning and nearly unbelievable, but why didn’t you say something about it an hour ago?”

“My father’s death nearly undid my mother.”

“So you said.”

“But I have not told you why. My…kind, for lack of a better word, bond for life. All of our lives. We give a feather to our loved one and it bonds us to them, forever. The bond cannot be severed, not even by death. The act is sacred, akin to marriage, and when it is done between two of my kind, leads to eternal happiness. But…” he cleared his throat. “but my father was human, and my mother, well, she thought they would have more time. They never bonded, and it is the single thing that she regrets the most in her very long life. She does not speak of her reasons for not doing so, nor do I know what would have happened to my father if they had been bonded. I do know that being bonded did not save John’s life.”

“Then how is John here? How is he like you now?”

“Because my mother is merciful.”

Silence settled over them as Gregory mulled this over. “Have you ever bonded with someone?”

“No.”

“Oh. _Oh_.”

Silence.

“Mycroft, I can’t. I can’t bond with you and know that when I die, you’ll be alone for eternity. I can’t allow that to happen. I love you too much to let that happen to you.”

“And I love you enough to bond with you and accept the fate given to me.”

Gregory was crying now, a few tears trickling down his cheeks. “I can’t. I just can’t. Not when I know what will transpire⎯I saw Sherlock after John died, and I cannot, will not let that happen to you. Never. Not while there is still breath in my body.”

Mycroft reached out and brushed away the stray tears. “I know, love, and that is why I never wanted to tell you this. I cannot give you up, and yet I knew you would not accept something that you could not return.”

“I’m sorry,” Gregory choked out.

“I know.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Never. Not unless you want to leave, and even then, I will use every trick I know to beg you to stay. Stay as long as you can, and let us be happy for the time that we have.”

Gregory let Mycroft pull him into a tight embrace and locked his fingers into the back of Mycroft’s dress shirt. When they had both calmed somewhat, they separated just long enough to stagger down the hall to their bed, where they collapsed in and listened to the other breathe. 

When Gregory finally dropped off into sleep, Mycroft watched him, thinking of the feather he had plucked a few weeks ago and hidden away in his bureau, hoping and wishing that his instincts had been wrong. He swallowed down the bitter pill of disappointment and instead focused on committing the sound of each of Gregory’s breaths to memory so he could call on them in the long twilight of his lives to come.


	16. Interlude--Gregory

Greg Lestrade was a practical man. When confronted with something extraordinary, he would blink, adjust his worldview, and move on. When told that the man he loved was all but immortal and wanted to bond with him, but told him that that permanent bond would be one-sided and cause him to be entirely alone after Greg died, Greg Lestrade shattered. 

He woke up before Mycroft did the morning he learned of his lover’s secret, and watched him for a moment before steeling himself to slip out of their bed. He pulled on his clothes and felt about for the pen and paper Mycroft kept on the bureau. Scratching out a quick note, he left it on his pillow and then slipped out the door, padding down to the kitchen. He made a thermos of tea and took a scone, stuffing it in his mouth as he screwed on the lid to the thermos. He set down his prize on the little table by the front closet and pulled on his coat before he quietly opened and shut the door behind him. Squaring his shoulders, he filled his lungs once, twice, and then let his feet take him wither they would. 

He wandered about London for hours, stopping into little shops he’d not noticed before, eating lunch when his stomach finally rebelled, grabbing a coffee from his favourite shop. His mobile didn’t buzz or ring once, and he was glad Mycroft had respected his desire for a little space to absorb everything he’d learned. It was, frankly, a lot to take in all at once.

Greg settled in, coffee firmly in hand, on a bench in Hyde Park, watching as the tourists ambled by. He crumbled a bit of pastry for the pigeons and jumped as his mobile buzzed for the first time since last night. 

_Thought you may want to talk. All ears, if you want.  
John_

He held the mobile in his hand, thumb hovering over the keys, for a full minute before he started typing.

_Yeah. Thanks.  
GL_

_Where are you? I can meet you there.  
John_

_Hyde Park. Pick a place and I’ll meet you. Pub?  
GL_

_Too crowded. Meet me at that Thai place near 221b. My treat.  
John_

_Be there in 30.  
GL_

 

When he entered the quiet restaurant, John half stood from his seat and waved him over, sharp eyes taking in everything of Greg’s posture, facial expressions, and clothing as he made his way over to their table. Greg dropped down into the booth opposite John and immediately started fidgeting with the menu. John said nothing to him until after their waitress dropped off two pints (Greg gave John a silent salute, which John grinned at) and took their orders. After taking a swig, John set down his pint and looked right at him and said, “I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“How did you⎯no, never mind. You’ve been hanging around Sherlock too long.”

John grinned. “No, I know he talked to you. Sherlock and I all but ordered him to. You deserved to know the truth.”

“And is it true? Are you really…like them?”

“I am.” John sobered a bit and said, “It was fucking terrifying, making the choice I did to accept Sherlock’s offer and let him bond to me. He doesn’t realise it, of course, and I’ve not told him. But I almost turned him down at first.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“Because of the way he looked at me when he asked me. While he was explaining it and what it meant to him, I thought I could never inflict the pain he would be in after I died on him. I just couldn’t do it. But when he handed me his feather and looked at me as if I was the one his entire life was hung up on, I couldn’t say no.”

“But you didn’t see him after you died! I have never in my life witnessed anyone sink so low as he did. He was all but dead himself, John, and I can’t…” he trailed off and swallowed, drank some of his lager, and whispered, “I can’t let Mycroft do that to himself. I can’t. I would never be happy knowing that when I died he would look like that, and that he would look like that for every life he lived after me. The fleeting happiness we might have would never be enough to hold him over, and it’s not fair to him to have to live like that.”

“Is it fair to deny both of you happiness?”

Greg pointed a finger in John’s face. “Don’t play dirty with me, Watson,” he growled. “It’s not worth knowing he’ll be miserable for God knows how long and I won’t be around to make it better.”

Their waitress came back with their food, and they both fell in to eating for a while. John was chasing the last of his snow peas around his bowl when Greg finally asked, “What does it feel like?”

“What does what feel like? Being bonded?”

“Yeah.”

John fidgeted with his fork, rubbing one finger up and down the handle. “I don’t know if I can describe it. It’s like coming home to a warm fire after a cold day. It’s like finding that one piece of a puzzle you lost years ago. It’s like I’ve found a part of myself I knew was missing, and now I’m truly who I was meant to be. It’s incredible, exhilarating, fucking terrifying, and the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Greg shifted a bit, uncomfortable at the thought of what he could be missing with Mycroft. “But before you…changed, and I want to ask you about that, later, how did you decide to do it? You knew what would happen after you died.”

“I did,” John said slowly. “But Sherlock…Sherlock is something else. He gave me back myself. He saved my life. After I got back, when I was discharged and crippled and just…meandering through my life, he gave me purpose again. I had a cause, and that cause was loving that man and protecting him. And I thought, if I can help him understand who he is and how much he is loved, maybe I would make a difference that would last him all of his lives. I would always be there, in some part of him.” He took a deep breath and looked up, forcing Greg to meet his gaze. “And that’s why I did it. I’ve never been happier. And now that I’ll always be there, well…I’m looking forward to seeing how he, and we, grow and change.”

Greg swallowed and broke John’s stare, grabbing his pint and taking the last swig. 

“Greg.”

He glanced at John, unsettled by the look on his face.

“I love Sherlock. I can’t imagine denying us, or him, that love. I know you love Mycroft, and he loves you so deeply in return that he’s willing to sacrifice his happiness to keep you with him. But, Greg, think about it. Please.”

“All right, yeah.” Greg pulled out his wallet, slapped some bills on the table. John shoved them back at him, frowning. Greg rolled his eyes and gave his thanks.

As they were shrugging into their jackets, John’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out and looked at his message, frowning slightly.

“What is it?”

“Sherlock.”

“Oh, Christ. What now?”

“He wants to see you, too. Apparently, there’s a case.” He tucked the phone back into his pocket. “Coming?”

“Sure,” Greg said, already heading for the door. “I need something to distract me for a bit.”

“I can guarantee you a distraction, but it may not a pleasant one.”

They both chuckled as they headed out, pulling their collars up against the light drizzle.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this is the part that just did not want to be written. I think I scrapped about six drafts of this one before I settled on this one. Reichenbach is coming.... :(

Mycroft rang off, holding his mobile tightly. Gregory had been home⎯he had talked to John, that much was obvious⎯but for the past few days, the two of them had danced around the other. Their touches, once deliberate, were now glancing and all but accidental. Gregory still kissed him goodbye when he left for work in the morning, but instead of a deep kiss and a squeeze of his arse, meant to sway him into being late, he now got a perfunctory, closed-mouth peck and a light squeeze of his bicep (always the left one).

They were drifting apart, even if Gregory didn’t see it yet, and Mycroft didn’t know how to stop it from happening.

But now, he had something almost more important to worry over⎯the call he’d just received was one he had hoped for but had not counted on⎯James Moriarty had been captured. And from the brief report his officer had given him, it sounded as if it had been suspiciously easy to apprehend the man. 

Mycroft squared his shoulders and straightened his tie, smoothed down his immaculate jacket. Moriarty was now detained, and Mycroft wanted answers. He strode down the hall and into the lift, twisting a key into its slot next to the -5 button. The button lit up, and the lift descended. 

There would be no more games.

 

John was inspecting the newest dead body in a string of them⎯four, so far⎯and Greg and Sherlock were standing back several yards, shoulders only a few inches apart. It was the first time the two of them had been alone since Greg talked to John, and Greg was sure Sherlock could feel the tension singing in his body as he bit his tongue against the hundreds of questions he wanted to ask.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to him, cataloguing and indexing, and then his eyes narrowed a bit as he said, “Your hands are twitching as if you need something to do with them to distract you. Your shoulders are tense and your weight keeps shifting from foot to foot. You’re biting your lip and fidgeting with your ear⎯all evidence points to you having questions to ask someone. As your symptoms did not appear until you were standing next to me, it can be inferred that your questions have to do with me. So, ask.”

Greg squirmed a bit, inspected the toe of his boot (muddy), and finally spluttered out, “How could you ask him to do this? I mean, how could you let yourself be opened up like that, knowing that you would lose him someday and you’d be alone?”

Sherlock blinked. “Ah.” He glanced over at John and the small clump of officers, ensuring that they were out of earshot before he cleared his throat and answered so quickly that Greg nearly didn’t catch what he said: “Because I love him. Because I am not myself when he is not with me, and I couldn’t bear to be without him, even if I only could have him for a short while.”

The two men glanced at each other and then looked away again, Sherlock shuffling his feet a bit in embarrassment. 

“You’re good for him, Lestrade,” Sherlock said after a moment. “And he’s good for you. I don’t know what John’s told you, but if you have questions, I’m willing to answer them. Just…” he trailed off, staring at John’s back, watching as he pointed at something on the body. “Don’t leave him. Please.”

“I don’t plan on it.”

“But you already are.”

“Wha⎯?” 

Sherlock was already striding over to meet John, and he didn’t look back even as Greg shouted his name.

 

Hours later, Greg trudged up the stairs, leaning a bit on the wall as he pushed open the study door. Mycroft and a woman were talking, their voices almost too low to hear, and Greg found himself blinking at the woman⎯the very _tall_ woman who was wearing a feathered cloak. 

“Er, hello,” he said, glancing over at Mycroft, who looked a bit shy.

“You must be Gregory,” the woman said. Her voice was much deeper than Greg was expecting, but she was smiling at him⎯and there was something familiar about her smile.

“Guilty as charged,” he grinned, holding out a hand. “You must be Mycroft and Sherlock’s mother.”

She clasped his hand and allowed her smile to widen a bit. “I am. It’s wonderful to meet you in person. Mycroft’s kept you from me.” She winked at him over Mycroft’s spluttering denial. “I’m afraid I cannot stay,” she added, dropping his hand. “I have business I must attend to. As do you both.” With a nod, she gathered her cloak about her and simply vanished. Greg closed his mouth and looked at Mycroft, who shrugged.

“Mummy does love to be mysterious.” He traced a finger along the brocade pattern on the back of the sofa, shifting his weight as he glanced up at Greg, almost shy. “How was your day?”

“You don’t want to deduce it?” Greg smiled to soften any sting from his words. 

“I want to hear it from you. Please.”

Greg frowned. “What’s wrong? Something’s got you upset.”

“I will tell you, just…not right this moment. You’re just home and you’re tired and I don’t want to talk about it, not yet. And before you ask, no, it’s not to do with you.”

So Greg reached out and took his lover’s hand and pulled him down onto the sofa, placing Mycroft’s head in his lap and running his hand through his hair as he recounted his long, long day. Slowly, as his hand stroked and petted and Mycroft’s hand rubbed up and down the arm he’d pulled across his chest, Greg felt his shoulders relax and his heart stop twisting with every beat. Christ, he’d missed this the last few weeks. It seemed like both of them had been too hesitant, retreating back to where they’d been when he first started staying the night here. Sherlock’s plea from earlier (he’d left that out when he told Mycroft about the crime scene) bubbled up into the forefront of his mind. He gently pushed it aside, promising himself he’d bring it, and his apologies for letting distance lapse between them, up with Mycroft later. Maybe tomorrow. The frown lines that had been between Mycroft’s brows were finally starting to fade, and he didn’t want to make them return. Not now, not ever, even though he knew the latter was a futile wish. Mycroft would always worry about something or someone.

When his story wound down, Greg paused, letting the stillness of the room seep in between them. Mycroft stirred and pulled his arm a bit closer to his chest, blinking up at the ceiling. Greg leaned down and kissed his forehead, smirking as he felt Mycroft’s nose twitch against the short spikes of his hair. “Tell me,” he said into Mycroft’s skin.

“Mmmm.”

“Please.”

Mycroft kept his eyes closed and whispered, “James Moriarty is in custody.”

Greg’s lips pressed hard into his forehead for a moment, gathering control, before he sat up slowly. “Since when?”

“Since this afternoon. My people found him and apprehended him.”

Greg shook his head for a moment, glad that Mycroft’s eyes were still closed. “And were you going to tell any of us this if I hadn’t pressured you?”

“Eventually, yes.”

“Eventually?”

Mycroft sighed. “Gregory, there’s nothing any of you can do. He’s in the hands of the government, and he will remain that way. His capture does not equal a free pass for you or Sherlock to question him.”

“But you will?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus.” 

Mycroft opened his eyes then, sat up properly, ran a hand through his hair.

“Have you started?”

“No. My people have. We’ll see what we can get from them, first.”

“If I give you a list of questions⎯” Greg blurted out, “Will you see that they get asked and answered?”

“It depends on the question,” Mycroft answered slowly.

Greg’s eyes were hard. “He’s a suspect in several cases, and I want to see them closed. He needs to be brought to justice, not locked away in some secret facility!”

“He will be,” Mycroft assured. “But you must understand that I have to protect all of you, and the easiest way to ensure Moriarty can’t use his influence is to keep him under my control. Do you see?”

“I do, but I don’t like it.”

“I know.” He leaned in and kissed the corner of Greg’s mouth. “I’m trusting you to keep this absolutely secret. No one can know, especially not Sherlock. I know what Sherlock would do if he knew, and it would not be…a wise choice on his part.”

Greg nodded. Sherlock had already killed Moriarty once, and he had come back to life. Greg did not want to imagine what Sherlock would do to ensure the man stayed dead this time. So, somewhat against his better judgment, he nodded, and Mycroft kissed him again.

“Thank you,” Mycroft breathed against his cheek, and Greg felt his heart break a little at the enormity of the gratitude in those two little words.

 

Four days later, Mycroft found himself sitting across a solid stainless steel table from James Moriarty, who was pale and sickly looking in the harsh light. The only points of color in Moriarty’s face was the coal-black pit of his eyes, which bored into Mycroft’s with the devotion of a religious fanatic.

“I hear you’ve said nothing but to ask to speak to me. Is that true?”

Moriarty only blinked at him, mouth moving lazily as if he were chewing a piece of gum.

Mycroft stared steadily back, crossed his legs at the knee, and clasped his hands over his knee, waiting for a response. The silence spun out between them for several minutes before Moriarty leaned forward as far as the restraints would allow and breathed, “It must be so fascinating to have grown up the way you and little Sherlock did. Tell me about it.”

Mycroft raised a brow. 

“Tell me about it, and I’ll answer your little questions. A little _quid pro quo_ between men of our…status.” He grinned at Mycroft, his front teeth still stained a rusty brown from his earlier session. “A story for a story, how’s that?”

Gritting his teeth, Mycroft began to talk. 

Across from him, Moriarty’s eyes glittered like a blackened jewel beetle’s carapace as he absorbed every word that fell from Mycroft’s lips and hoarded it jealously in a crack behind his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, there's 11,580 hits on this little story (where are you all coming from holy cow?)?! Thank you all so much for reading! I'm likely about halfway through this story, if you were wondering. :)


	18. Interlude⎯Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I apologize for the long wait. I've had a rough month at work.

John was getting better at flying. 

They spent their quiet evenings in the flat, telly on the news, and John flew. At first, months ago, Sherlock would change too and fly around the flat, John watching his every movement. Then, they would fly together, Sherlock gently nudging John’s wings or feet with his own to correct his form.  
John delighted in the lessons at first, chuckling when he faltered or forgot to flap his wings. But after Moriarty returned, he practiced every night, getting faster and more secure in his other form.

Sherlock knew, without John having to say it, why his practice was so diligent. 

If there came a time when John needed to fly, he had to be able to soar.

 

He wandered through London, his city, holding John’s hand and laughing.

He ran through London, chasing after the criminals who did her wrong, with John only a step behind.

He stood in London, letting it flow around him, watching John interact with this city they had known and loved for lifetimes. 

They walked hand-in-hand, ducking down side streets and into little alleys, chuckling as they reminisced on crimes they solved last year, fifty years, a hundred years ago. Sherlock didn’t comment on the similarities that bridged those seemingly disparate cases that were separated by years, decades even, and if John noticed those same similarities, he said nothing.

 

Winter came, and they huddled in front of the fire in their home, John’s arm snug around Sherlock’s waist as they watched bad telly and flicked popcorn at each other. 

One particularly cold night, Sherlock was quieter than normal, keeping John’s head firmly tucked under his chin so that he would not see the thoughts that were spinning nearly out of control in Sherlock’s brain.

Moriarty had been too quiet. It had been months since his reappearance, and yet they had heard nothing since Mother found one of her children dead. Sherlock was worried⎯not that he would admit that aloud⎯that he had missed something, that Moriarty was playing a long game and Sherlock had not yet figured out the rules. He feared for John and Lestrade (Mother and Mycroft could take care of themselves), and so he spent every moment he could get away with (meaning that John would not catch him and ask him what he was thinking about⎯Sherlock had lost his ability to lie to his husband) planning, thinking, searching for exit strategies that ended up with the least amount of damage done to his family.

John’s breath was damp and warm against his chest. Sherlock rubbed his thumb over John’s denim-clad hipbone and let himself think. The quiet unspooled around them until it was broken by John’s soft entreaty. “Tell me a story.”

“Hmmm?”

John shifted a bit in his arms, drawing up the blanket he’d thrown over his lap. “Tell me a story Mum told you when you were a kid.”

“I don’t⎯”

“Don’t say you don’t remember any,” John said, poking him playfully in the ribs. “Your mind is a steel trap. I know there’s at least one rattling around in that mind palace of yours.”

Sherlock harrumphed, hiding a smile, and John resettled himself, moving so that he was leaning into Sherlock’s side, resting his head on his shoulder rather than his chest. Sherlock drummed his fingers on his thigh as he gathered his thoughts. 

“Have you ever heard of the selkies?”

John shook his head, reaching down to capture Sherlock’s fingers in his own.

Sherlock smiled briefly. “I remember that Mycroft said Father used to tell Mother that he should have been a selkie⎯or she should have. Apparently, this was a joke between them, but I don’t remember what Mycroft said Mother’s response was.” Sherlock held his breath for a moment, waiting to see if John would pick up on the lie (he was getting far too good at that), but he didn’t say anything. Sherlock let out his breath in a barely audible sigh. Mother’s response was something he didn’t want to think about, not now, not with John curled into his side on a night that was shaping up to be quite nice, as long as he didn’t say too much. 

“Tell me,” John said after a few long moments. 

“A selkie is also known as a seal-woman. They can also be men, but that is more rare. Their origins are in the Orkneys or in other remote areas in Scotland.”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted gently. “Give me a story, not just the facts. Please.”

“I don’t know how to tell stories.”

“Of course you do,” John retorted gently, tracing his thumb along Sherlock’s palm. “Just don’t overthink what you’re going to say, and let the words come out.”

Sherlock snorted. “That sounds like something you got off a blog on how to write.”

John poked him in the side, making him jump. “It’s still good advice, no matter where it came from,” he said, resettling himself to get more comfortable.

They sat in silence for a few minutes as Sherlock cast his mind back, seeking the words Mother had used when she told him this story. Finally, he cleared his throat and began reciting.

“There was a man, a fisherman, who lived alone out in the Orkneys. His name was Angus. This was a long, long, long time ago, when there was no electricity or cars or telegrams. His nearest neighbour was several kilometres away, and Angus was too busy to visit. His life was hard and lonely, but he did well for himself.

“One day, Angus saw a young woman alone on the beach near his cottage. He called out to her, but by the time he got near, she had disappeared. There was no trace of her left⎯not a footprint or a thread of clothing caught in the rocks. It was as if she’d never been there at all. Angus walked up and down the beach, scouring for clues, but he found nothing. After several hours, he gave up and went back to his dark little cottage. He dreamed of the young woman that night, but when awoke the next morning, he could not remember anything of his dream except that the woman had fair skin and dark hair.

“Angus waited at the beach every morning for weeks to see if the young woman would come again. He waited in vain, and finally, after neglecting his fishing for too long, Angus went back on his boat.

“Months later, Angus had nearly forgotten about the young woman. After all, he’d only seen her for a moment, and only the once. But on a fair late spring day, he was walking the beach after his breakfast when he saw her again. She turned at his call, and his breath was stolen from him at the intensity of her blue eyes. She looked away, and when he did not move, struck dumb at her beauty, she slipped away. But this time, when the spell was broken, he ran forward and saw her footsteps leading into the ocean. Angus waited for hours at the shore, but she never emerged.

“He went back the next morning and saw her again. This time, he kept quiet until he was within two arms’ length of her. Distracted by the sea, she did not hear him until he bid her good morning.

“‘Are you in trouble, miss?’

“‘No, no trouble.’ She replied, nearly edging away from the man.

“He stayed put, keeping his hands in her sight. He introduced himself, and when he got no reply, asked after her name, her folks, her home. ‘Do you need assistance in getting home, lass?’ he asked.

“‘No,’ she said, smiling kindly. ‘But thank you all the same.’

“And then she turned away and disappeared into the craggy rocks a few metres up the beach. Angus searched for her, but found no sign of where she’d gone. 

 

“A few weeks later, Angus found a sealskin on the beach near to where the young woman, whose name was Ceana, had been fond of sitting. Unable to resist a prize such as that skin, which was of a far better quality than any he had ever seen before, he picked it up and took it home. Without quite knowing why, he locked the skin away in a trunk hidden under the boards under his bed and tucked the key into his pocket. 

“That night, he heard a soft knocking on his door and opened it to find Ceana on the other side, shivering in the hard wind blowing off of the sea. 

“‘May I come in?’ she asked through her chattering teeth.

“‘Of course!’ Angus cried, hardly believing his luck. Here, he’d been trying to find this woman and now she’d come to him. ‘Let me get you some tea and a bit of food.’ He bustled around the small kitchen, setting cup and saucer and a bit of bread in front of her. 

“Her eyes were wandering around the small, tidy space, taking everything in. She startled at the clink of the cup and saucer, and waited until he had drunk from his own cup before she followed suit, licking her lips at the taste. Angus made up his bed for his guest and slept on the floor in front of his fireplace.

“When he woke the next morning, Ceana was poking tentatively at the kettle. Angus laughed and teased her gently for not knowing what a kettle was. She smiled back, and Angus felt himself falling in love.

“Ceana never left, and after a few months, Angus took her to the small village church, where they were married. The two of them were blissfully happy, and after a little while, had one child, and then another.

“Angus still went out on his boat, and came back in the evenings smelling of salt and wind. If he wondered why Ceana always clung to him longer than she was normally wont on those nights, he never said. 

“The pair had been married for eight years before the rumours started at the pub Angus frequented once a week. The men were talking of the selkies, the seal-women who came to steal away the men and drag them down under the water. More and more men had not been coming back from fishing⎯their boats returned empty, and the villagers were growing uneasy. 

“‘Them selkies leave their skins behind when they come ashore or on the boat. They can jump straight out of the water, change, glamour you, and drag you under the water all before you can shout.’ Malcolm the publican stated. ‘And if you ever run across a skin lying around, beware⎯you’ll be their next victim!’ The crowd roared with laughter as he pretended to swoon behind the bar.

“All through this, Angus had grown quieter and quieter.

“‘Selkies are dangerous folk, they are,’ William the Oldest said. ‘They’re of the old magics, and they won’t hesitate to steal you away. The only way to keep yourself safe is to steal their skin. If you capture a selkie’s sealskin, she will never leave your side, but she’ll never stop searching for her lost skin. Once she finds it, she’ll leave and return to her home under the water, and she’ll never come back on land for as long as she lives. He man will be doomed to wander the shore in search of her until the day he dies.’

“The room went quiet, and then slowly, conversation about other selkie myths started to pick back up as the men told more stories about the beautiful, deadly creatures. Angus slipped out, unnoticed, into the dark and wandered along the beach, taking his time in thinking before he went home.”

Sherlock coughed and stretched. John sat up, blinking slowly as he came out of the near-trance Sherlock’s voice had caused him to slip into. 

“I’ll make some tea,” John said, padding into the kitchen. He returned with a large glass of water, which Sherlock drank in three hearty swallows, before he went back into the kitchen to fill the kettle. They drank their tea in silence, neither one of them willing to break the spell that Sherlock’s story had woven in the air. John set their empty cups on the coffee table before he sat back on the sofa, pulling Sherlock down and letting him squirm about until he was comfortably settled with his head on John’s good shoulder. John pressed a kiss into his curls as Sherlock settled back into storytelling.

“When Angus returned home that night, Ceana and the children were already in bed. Angus slipped in next to his wife and laid awake much of the night, devising a plan. The next morning, he pretended to go out to the boat, but doubled back and hid in the scrubby bushes near their home. He waited there all the day until he finally saw what he had been waiting for. Ceana walked out of the front door, heading straight for the beach, where she stood and stared out at the waves for over an hour, unmoving, until one of the children ran out to fetch her.

“Angus had seen enough, heard enough to make his suspicions all but a certainty. The next morning, he sent the children off to the village for some food, and went upstairs and unlocked his little trunk, pulling out the sealskin he’d found so many years ago.

“Ceana was feeding the cows and chickens, so Angus set the skin on their kitchen table and waited for her. When she came in, her eyes immediately locked on to the skin, her skin, spread out on their table. The air went still around them as Angus looked at her with sad, sad eyes.

“‘Will you leave?’ he asked.

“Ceana didn’t answer, not at first. She reached out one pale hand and held it centimetres over her skin, but didn’t touch it. ‘Do you want me to?’ she finally responded, eyes never leaving her skin.

“‘No! No, I don’t want you to leave. But I want you to know that I didn’t know. I didn’t know what you were until just a few nights ago, and even then, I only suspected. If I had known what taking this skin meant, I never would have taken it. I never meant to trap you or hold you against your will, and I am sorry for doing so. I don’t want you to leave, but I will not force you to stay.’

“She met his eyes then, withdrawing her hand from where it had so nearly touched her skin. ‘If I had not wanted to risk it being found, I would have hid it as well as I had every other time.’ She smiled at him. ‘It was my choice to leave it out, just as it was my choice not to seek it out after you took it.’

“Angus pushed the skin a little closer to her. ‘I won’t hide it from you again. If you want to take it and leave, I understand.’

“‘You know that if I take this skin, I can never return here, and you and the children would not be able to follow me?’

“Angus nodded. ‘I just want you to be happy. I know that you may not have been happy here and I want you to be able to choose where you weren’t able to before,’ he whispered.

“Ceana smiled at him and then kissed him sweetly. ‘Thank you,’ she said in between kisses. ‘Take it away and put it somewhere. I promise you that I will not touch this skin, not while you are alive and our children are too young to care for themselves.’ She pushed his chin up with a finger. ‘I’ve been so happy here, and I will keep these memories with me for the rest of my life.’

“He frowned in confusion, and Ceana added, ‘My kind live much longer than yours. I will not age in this body, and will age very slowly in my true form.’

“Angus thought this over, and as the implication of her statement washed over him, his throat closed up and he could barely speak. ‘But it is said that if you are forced into becoming human, you will die much more quickly. Please, take your skin and go! I cannot bear to think that I killed you because I was selfish.’

“Ceana held him close and whispered, ‘I was not forced. I chose this. I chose to leave my skin where it would be found by you. I made my choice⎯I was not coerced. So, I will live as long as I normally would.’

“‘But won’t you be lonely after…after I’m gone?’

“‘Yes, of course. But you have given me a precious gift of love and happiness that will keep through the rest of my days. I am grateful for that. I am the first of my kind in many, many years to have been granted that gift.’

“Ceana and Angus lived together for forty more years. And when Angus slipped away in his sleep one night, Ceana wrapped him in her skin and took him to the sea they both loved. She slipped into her skin and pulled his body down with her to be buried with her people. The stories that she told her people changed the way selkies viewed humans, and from then on, the relationship between them was much improved.”

“What happened to Ceana?” John murmured. 

“She lived a long life and when she died fifty years after Angus, she was buried next to him. It is said that the selkie-folk still sing songs about their love.”

“Thank you,” John said, leaning down and kissing Sherlock properly. “That was a lovely story.”

 

Later, as they were tangled in their sheets, Sherlock nestled in closely to John’s bare back, John said, “Your story reminded me of us.”

“Mmm. It does have some similarities.”

“I think Mycroft should tell it to Greg. Might help.”

Sherlock pressed his forehead to the back of John’s head. “It might.” What he didn’t say was that his Mother hated that story now, as it reminded her too much of what happened to her once Father died. Except for her, there were no stories told about her love, and there had been no bittersweet ending. For Mother, it had been a sudden death and descent into despair⎯and she had only held herself together because she had to raise him and Mycroft. 

“I wish you’d told me it before,” John murmured sleepily. “It would’ve made me less scared.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock managed to ask after several minutes as shock had paralysed his vocal cords.

But John was already asleep, and didn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't say that the story of Angus and Ceana is important, but it is important, I promise. :)


	19. Chapter 19

_Moriarty has been released.  
⎯MH_

_What? When?  
⎯GL_

_This morning. Even I cannot hold him indefinitely without charges and concrete evidence of those charges, and since he declined to give us much, he forced our hand. We had to release him.  
⎯M_

_Shit  
⎯G_

_Precisely.  
⎯M_

_Have you told Sherlock and John?  
⎯G_

Greg’s mobile rang forty-three seconds after sending that last text. “Hello?”

“I have not told them, nor have I told my mother. In fact, none of them even knew he was in custody, and it needs to stay that way.”

“Sherlock will figure it out.”

“He may or he may not.”

“You have to tell them,” Greg said sharply. “They have to know the danger they’re in.”

“They know he is alive and they know to be vigilant. John and Sherlock are safe enough. It’s you that I worry about.”

“I’ve told you before, I can keep myself safe. I have been trained for this.”

“No.” Mycroft paused. “No, you haven’t been trained for anything like what this Moriarty can do.”

“Mycroft⎯”

“Gregory, please. I’m asking you not to fight me on this.”

“What do you know?” Greg asked after a long pause.

Mycroft shifted his weight, tapped his index finger against the back of his mobile. “Too much,” he replied. “Too much, and not enough.”

Greg let the silence unspool as he took that in. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”

Mycroft huffed a sigh through his nose. “Unfortunately not. I’ve a meeting somewhere I cannot tell you about, and I won’t be back until Thursday.” He paused and added, “I am sorry I did not tell you sooner, but this meeting was just scheduled this morning.”

Greg’s fingers tightened on his mobile as a brief flash of irrational panic swept through him. Knowing this Moriarty, it made him nervous to think that Mycroft would be out of his sight for four days, even though he knew that Mycroft had enough security and other protections that would keep him just as safe, if not safer, than he could. “I understand. Just…be safe. I love you.”

“I will,” Mycroft said solemnly. “And I love you.”

Greg let out a breath and rang off, flipping the little mobile in his hand as he considered what he should do next. Things between them were still a little fragile, and he wanted answers, not more brushing off (even though Mycroft’s brush offs were polite and well-meaning, they were still frustrating). He had already spoken to John; maybe Sherlock would be willing to talk. He stuffed his mobile back into his pocket and grabbed his jacket and keys, calling out a brief farewell to Donovan as he headed down to the lifts. 

Outside, the sun was making a valiant effort to break through the clouds as Greg headed for his car. If he had looked up, he would have noticed the man sitting on the opposite rooftop, watching him through a pair of binoculars as he opened his car door.

 

Sherlock was at home when Greg knocked on the door, barely waiting for the lazy “Come in” that Sherlock gave as Greg pushed it open. Sherlock was dressed for the day, leaning against the window and watching the street below. His violin was on his chair, but the bow was still held loosely in his hand. 

“Have you seen John today?” Sherlock asked without turning around. 

Greg paused for an instant before he sat in John’s chair, resting his fingers against his temple as he leaned on the arm. “No. I’ve not heard from him, either. Why?” He tired to keep his voice calm. With Moriarty on the loose, there was a possibility that John was in trouble.

“I’d know if he was in danger.”

Greg jumped a bit. Had he said that out loud?

Sherlock turned to face him, tapping the bow on his leg. “No, you didn’t say it out loud. I’d know because of our bond. He’s just….”

“Just what?” Greg leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees.

“Nothing.’ Sherlock picked up the violin, returned it and the bow to its case, and then sat down himself, tapping his fingers lightly against the arm of his chair.

The two of them watched each other for a few moments in comfortable silence before Greg said, “I’m sorry about your father.”

That was so clearly not what Sherlock was expecting him to say⎯the shock flickered across his face before he could control it. “Who told you about our father?”

“Mycroft. He told me what happened, and Jesus, Sherlock, no kid should ever have to go through that. So, I know it’s not much and it’s far too late, but I’m still sorry it happened.”

Sherlock looked away, pressing his lips together. John would know what that expression meant, Greg thought, but he couldn’t parse it himself. “Thank you,” Sherlock said stiffly. He sniffed, tugged at his lapel, and then looked at Greg again. “What else did you come here to talk about? Clearly you have no case for me or else you’d not have sat down.”

“You said you’d know if John was in danger.”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell what he’s thinking?”

“No. Just a general sense of his emotions. Right now, he’s upset, but I don’t know why.”

“What did you do?”

“I did nothing,” Sherlock said primly. “I told him a story last night, and I may have upset him a bit afterwards, but to be fair, he made me upset first. And that’s all you’re getting out of me.”

Greg quirked a grin at him. “I’m sure you’ll sort it out soon enough.”

“I was merely wondering if he’d confided in you. The two of you seem to be friends.”

“We are, but I’ve not heard from him for a few days, now.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Greg, scanning him. Greg stood firm⎯he’d been on the receiving end of that stare far too many times to be intimidated by it now.

“What do you really want to ask me?”

“How do I contact your mother?”

Sherlock blinked. “You can’t.”

“But you can.”

“Of course.”

“I met her just the other day, but she left before I got to say more than two words.”

“Did you? Hmmm.” Sherlock leaned back against his chair, rubbing his index finger against his bottom lip. “Why do you want to talk to her?”

“None of your business.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his defensive tone. After a moment, he said, “You are not one of her children, so you cannot call her. Your only option is to wait for her to come to you. If she has need to speak with you, she will find you.”

“Can you call her for me?”

“I could but I won’t. Mother does things her own way; I won’t be the one to disrupt that.” He looked at Greg, watched as his shoulders slumped a bit, and added, with genuine remorse, “I am sorry.”

“Sorry about what?” John asked as he pushed the door closed.

Greg turned to look at him. “Nothing.” He glanced at the tension on John’s face and said, “I’ll leave you two alone. John, give us a ring soon, yeah?”

“Sure,” John said easily as he swung the bag he was carrying on the only clear spot on the kitchen table. “But you don’t have to leave on my account.”

“No, I need to get home anyway,” Greg replied as he stood up. 

Sherlock’s voice stopped him with his hand on the knob. “Have Mycroft tell you the story of Angus,” he said.

“Who?”

“Tell him to tell you the story of Angus and his selkie. It will help him remember things, and it will help you understand.” Sherlock glanced at John, eyes tight with something Greg couldn’t identify.

Confused, Greg looked at John, who just nodded. “It’ll help,” John affirmed.

“Right. I’m off.” Greg pulled the door open and clattered down the stairs. Neither Sherlock nor John said goodbye⎯they were too busy trying to avoid the other’s eyes.

“You left without saying goodbye this morning,” Sherlock said, voice flat.

“I did.” John’s chin came up, his arms crossed.

Sherlock tipped his own chin up, looking up at John who was standing behind his red armchair. “You said you wished I’d told you that story earlier, John. Why…” He broke off, looked away and then back. “Do you have doubts? Do you wish you’d not said yes?”

John exploded. “Christ, Sherlock, how can you say that? I have never, not once, wished that I had not said yes to you. After all we’ve said and promised each other, and you ask me that?”

“But you did have doubts.”

John’s gaze skittered away. Sherlock’s heart was in his throat as John gave a terse nod. “But not in the way you think,” John stated, talking to the top of his chair.

“Explain.”

“I doubted because I didn’t want to hurt you more.” John sighed and came around the chair, dropping into it. He clasped his hands between his knees and looked at his ring, twisting it as he spoke. “I couldn’t imagine causing you the pain I knew you would be in for the rest of your very long life once I died and you were left alone and unloved. But, I was selfish, too.”

Sherlock snorted in disbelief.

“I was! The doubt disappeared when you handed me that feather. The look on your face…you looked like I was the one who hung the moon and the stars, and I couldn’t imagine not having the happiness you could give me, and I could give you⎯it wouldn’t have been fair to deny either of us that. So I said yes and determined that I would make you as happy as I could until the day I died so you would have those memories to sustain you. 

“But then, I was also worried that you had seen how much I loved you and that I had somehow forced your hand, made you want to bond with me because I wanted that commitment from you and you didn’t want to make it. Hearing that story you told me would have allayed those fears. I think it will do wonders for Greg and Mycroft. That story is what I needed to hear⎯that it was your choice and I wasn’t selfish enough to make you do something you didn’t want to do.”

“Why didn’t you say anything before?”

John shrugged, a wry smile quirking his lips as he said, “It didn’t seem important. And besides, it doesn’t matter now, anyway.”

“Promise me you’ll tell me if something’s bothering you,” Sherlock said, voice low and urgent.

John’s brow furrowed. “Of course. What brought that on?”

“Just…I do not want there to be anything we might regret left between us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” But Sherlock picked up his violin again, drawing the bow across the strings in a melody that made John’s heart ache. They didn’t say anything else that night.

 

Once he arrived home, Greg puttered around the kitchen, reheating some takeaway he had convinced Mycroft to get the previous night, opening a bottle of lager, turning on the telly. He sank down into the sofa and let the evening news lull him into a bit of a stupor. His mobile rang not long after he’d rinsed off the plate he’d used, and he hurried back to the sofa to answer it.

“Hello,” Mycroft’s voice curled into his ear.

“Hi. Had a good day?”

“Fair to middling. I can’t talk long, but I do need to tell you something.”

“I do, too.”

“Go on.”

“I went to see Sherlock today. He told me something interesting⎯something about you telling me a story about a selkie.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah. John said it would help. Actually, they both did.”

“I see. Anything else?”

Greg squirmed a bit. “I asked him to call your mother for me. He said he couldn’t, and that I had to wait for her to contact me.”

“What do you want to talk to her about?” the surprise was evident in Mycroft’s tone, and Greg bit back a grin⎯it wasn’t often that he pulled one over on his partner.

“None of your business.”

“Hmmm.”

“What did you need to tell me?”

“Oh, yes. The feather of mine that you have⎯do you still have it?”

“Of course.”

“Where is it?”

“In the bureau.”

“Keep it with you, on your person, at all times, please.”

“Why?”

Mycroft huffed. “I asked Mummy to give you that feather so that I could have a sense, no matter how dull and faint it is, of your well-being. It would be stronger if we were bonded⎯”

“Sherlock said something about knowing if John was in danger.”

“Precisely. If you have that feather on you, I can track your location and know if you’re in danger much more accurately and much more quickly than I could using more traditional means.”

“What aren’t you saying?”

Mycroft paused. “You know me too well. All I can say is that I’m worried, and this will make me slightly less so.”

“What happens if I lose it or if it’s taken from me?”

“Then I’ll know something catastrophic has happened. Gregory, please, will you promise to keep it with you at all times?”

“Of course. I wish…”

“What?”

“I wish I had the equivalent for you. You’re not the only one who worries. Especially not now.”

“Just keep my feather close. I assure you, Gregory, that if you do, you will know if something happens to me.”

“What will I do? If something happens to you, what will I do?”

“Go on,” Mycroft said gently. “Live. That’s what I would ask of you.”

Greg’s throat closed up. They listened to each other breathe, the soft crackle echoing in their ears before Mycroft broke the spell. “I have to go. I will see you Thursday, not a minute after.”

“Okay,” Greg whispered. Then, louder, “Be safe.”

“Always.”

Greg rang off and tapped the mobile against his lips for a beat or two until he finally shook his head and headed down the hall for bed. He left the hall light on, just in case Mycroft came home early.

 

The first clue in Moriarty’s game came with the missing Reichenbach Falls painting. Sherlock stared down at Lestrade’s case notes, thinking back to the promise he had made John only a few weeks ago. This was bothering him⎯history was gearing up again, spinning its creaky wheel. Their story always ended at Reichenbach, and Sherlock wondered if this was this modern Moriarty’s version of it.

He laid awake the night the painting had been restored to its proper place, listening to John breathe. Sherlock wondered how much of Moriarty and the Fall and its aftermath John remembered, or if he simply tried to ignore it. Sherlock could not forget the countless times he had pretended to die in order to kill off his foe. He had thought that in this life, the Pool would have been their Reichenbach. Moriarty had never returned from the dead in the same life, and this worried Sherlock.

How would the story end this time? Every other time, he and John had reunited, retired, and died within days of each other. But now, with Moriarty’s power an unknown quality, Sherlock felt the first frisson of fear lick its way up his spine. He needed a plan⎯actually, he needed several plans for he and John. One for if both of them died, one for if John died and Sherlock lived, one for Sherlock having to deceive John and leave for a time without him, and one for if Sherlock died and John lived. 

But the catch was that John could not know. Everything could come crashing down if John had to be left behind⎯the most common scenario that had happened in the past was that Sherlock had to fake his death in order to hunt down the last of Moriarty’s crew and keep John safe. John had always forgiven him after his return, but the deception was necessary in order to keep Sherlock’s cover. 

Looking down at John, whose head was resting on his shoulder, Sherlock wondered if he would have the strength to leave half of himself behind when, not if, the time came. And there was a new problem⎯John would know he was still alive, thus making it more difficult for him to play the grieving widower.

There was only one solution⎯Sherlock would have to break their bond if it came to that. His heart shuddered at the thought, and he reflexively hugged John closer, making him grunt in protest. 

_Please, let him live,_ Sherlock thought as he finally dropped off into an uneasy sleep. _Please, don’t let him do the unthinkable because he thinks it will bring him to be with me. Please, just let him live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I apologize for the looong wait. Job interview in another state (keep your fingers crossed for me--I should find out something by the beginning of October) and prepping for that ate into my writing time.


	20. Chapter 20

_Come and play._  
Tower Hill.  
Jim Moriarty x. 

Sherlock glanced from the screen to John’s worried face, and thought, _And so it begins._

John was already running back towards their bedroom to change. Sherlock stood up, placed the mobile carefully on the table, lining it up in a precise parallel to the microscope, and allowed himself one minute to panic.

When John came back to the kitchen, buttoning the last button on his shirt, all traces of Sherlock’s breakdown were gone. He nodded at his husband, snatched his coat and scarf off of their hook, and took the stairs two at a time. Time was moving forward in great lurches and leaps, and it seemed no time at all had passed before he and John were stood in front of a screen, watching as Moriarty wrote a message for him on the glass, then shattered it, sitting down and draping himself in the Crown Jewels. 

Time slowed back down as both Lestrade and John looked at him. He resolutely ignored them, instead concentrating on keeping his emotions from revealing themselves by causing him to change form in front of half of the Yard.

When they finally got back home, Sherlock immediately changed and flew around the flat in agitation until he finally alit on John’s outstretched finger. Wordlessly, John pulled him in and cradled him to his chest, letting Sherlock hear his strong, steady heartbeat. 

Sherlock refused to change back (being in this form right now was soothing him as much as John’s careful handling⎯he’d spent the evening alternating between perching on John’s shoulder and being held close to John’s heart), so John changed himself before fluttering down onto his pillow, joining Sherlock. John tucked himself up close to Sherlock’s side, and one of Sherlock’s wings came down and over him as he dropped off to sleep. Sherlock tucked his beak between their bodies and let his eyes close as the barbs of John’s feathers brushed reassuringly against his head.

 

Mother came to see them the next morning, tapping politely on their window until Sherlock changed and opened it to allow her inside. John’s head came up and he blinked, ruffling his feathers a bit in agitation (or embarrassment at getting caught in bed with his husband⎯Sherlock wasn’t sure).

“Good morning, Mother,” Sherlock said as she settled briefly on his shoulder. 

“I need to speak with you. All of you. Be at Mycroft’s in one hour, please.”

“We can meet here,” John offered, changing back and moving so that both of them could see him.

“Mycroft’s is more secure,” the Morrighan said gently, “But thank you.”

She flew back through the open window without another word. John looked at Sherlock. “What was that about?”

“Mother wants to talk to us, obviously.”

“About?”

“I haven’t a clue, John.”

“Well, I can guess. She must know Moriarty’s in custody⎯maybe she knows something else. Didn’t she say she was going to do some investigating of her own when she found Moriarty’s…message to her?”

“Perhaps she does. Mother will tell us when she’s ready. And, as much as I dislike pleasing my brother by being on time, I do not want to upset her. I haven’t seen her in her bird form in many years⎯something must be upsetting her greatly.”

Precisely fifty minutes later, John and Sherlock rapped politely on the window to Mycroft’s study. Greg was there, alone, and he jumped a bit before he moved over to the window, looking confused. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and croaked, “Let us in, Lestrade.”

Greg’s eyes widened as he hastily yanked open the window, stepping back to allow them through. John was watching him (and how Greg knew which one of them was which was something he’d have to think over later) with one eye as Sherlock flew off in search of his brother. 

“Haven’t you seen Mycroft like this?” John asked as he settled on the back of a chair, preening a bit to settle his feathers after their journey.

“Well, yes, but only once,” Greg answered, openly staring at John. “I tend to forget that the two of you can do that, too.”

John gave him an odd look ( _He’s only seen Mycroft like this once?_ ), and then fluttered down and changed back. 

Anthea walked in when John was in mid-change, causing him to give an odd half-squawk, half-yelp of surprise. 

“Hello,” she said pleasantly, not even batting an eye. John stared at her, and she huffed and said, “Mr. Holmes has made his ability known to me since I started working for him. He’s asked you two to join them in the kitchen⎯his mother has arrived.”

“Wait, you’ve known all this time?” Greg spluttered. “And he couldn’t tell me for years?”

“Need-to-know, Inspector,” she said dryly.

Greg spluttered again, but allowed John to lead him away.

John sucked in a breath when they entered the kitchen. Mum was there, and she looked, well, awful. Her coat was bedraggled and had lost its lustre, her hair was tangled and dull, and there were deep, dark circles under her eyes that made them look even darker than normal.

She nodded at them when they came around to the table. Her hands were curled tightly around a mug of tea. Mycroft raised a brow at Greg in a silent offer of a cuppa. Greg shook his head, but John moved over to the kettle and poured himself a cup, leaning against the counter as he sipped on it. 

“What’s happened, Mother?” Sherlock asked, opening the conversation none of them were quite willing (or brave) enough to start.

“I’ve been busy,” she said, voice clipped and angry. “Doing research.”

“And what have you learnt, Mummy?” Mycroft asked gently.

Her eyes dropped down to her tea, and her shoulders slumped. Mycroft and Sherlock shared a look of alarm over her head⎯they’d not seen Mummy like this for years upon years⎯not since Father died. 

“That this fight is beyond all of you,” she replied.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “How do you mean?” 

“This Moriarty is the son of Euryale.”

At that, both Sherlock and Mycroft hissed in alarm. Greg and John looked askance at their partners, brows furrowed.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock snapped.

The Morrighan merely looked at him. Sherlock spat a curse and stood up, stalking around the perimeter of the room. 

“Sorry, but what’s the matter?” Greg asked.

The Morrighan looked at him. “Have you heard of the Medusa?” At Greg and John’s nods, she continued, “Euryale is her immortal sister. One of them, anyway. They are the Gorgons, those whose hair is made of snakes and who can turn a person into stone with just one glance. She currently resides at the gate to the Underworld. 

“No one knew that she had a son, let alone one who wandered about in this world. Little is known about her, and even less about her family. I learnt that this Moriarty was born to her not long after Sherlock’s birth. Apparently, the Fates have deemed it fit for this Moriarty to wander where he pleases, regardless of whom his parents are.”

“And what can he do?” John asked.

The Morrighan shook her head. “I could not discover what talents this creature has, other than that he can capture and kill one of my children without my knowledge. I am warning you all now, more than ever, to be cautious. I know that he has been taken into custody,” here she glanced at Mycroft, then Greg, “but I do not think that will keep him from causing harm for long.”

“I’ll send out recommendations for more guards,” Greg said, reaching for his mobile.

“That will do nothing, not unless you have guards who are of the same ilk as myself. And even I do not think I could keep him contained for long.” The Morrighan smiled at Greg to lessen the sting of her words. “But it was a good idea.”

“You wouldn’t look like this if that was all you’d learnt,” Sherlock said, leaning forward and clasping her hand. “What else did you find?”

The Morrighan swallowed and said, “Your father, children, do you remember him?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied instantly.

“A little,” Sherlock said softly. “I was so young.”

“He did not die⎯he was murdered. By Euryale.”

Sherlock’s hand gripped hers so tightly that both their knuckles turned white. “How? Why?” Sherlock asked.

“She abhors happiness, and she abhors the idea of one of the Elder Ones mating with a human and making a life-bond with one. As for the how, I do not know.” She steeled herself and then looked at all four of them, forcing them to meet and keep her gaze. “I do not want to see what happened to my husband happen to you. Be wary, and be safe.” She looked especially hard at Greg, then Mycroft, before she shook herself, resettling the feathers on her cloak. She stood, and the others stood with her. “I must go,” she said. “I will keep searching, and see what else I can learn. These are dark times and dark magics that are upon us now⎯I have not seen the like for centuries.”

“Be safe, Mummy,” Mycroft said. John and Sherlock nodded their agreement. Greg sketched a little bow. She gave them a sad smile and disappeared with a crack, leaving behind a faint smell of a bonfire.

Once she had gone, the four of them looked around the table at each other. “What now?” Greg asked, feeling more than a little out of his depth.

Mycroft and Sherlock were looking at each other, weighing and judging and asking questions all at once. Sherlock finally said, “Tell me.”

John reached over and took his husband’s hand, smoothing his thumb over Sherlock’s palm in an effort to calm him.

“Sherlock, I’ve told you all you need to know.”

“No, you really haven’t, brother dear.” The sarcasm was chilling. “I know you’ve told Greg more than me, and I’m the one who lost him. So, tell me.”

“What do you mean?” John asked quietly, thumb still moving in hypnotic circles on Sherlock’s hand.

“He knows more about Father’s death than Mother does, and I want to know what happened. Exactly what happened, because it could happen to you, or more likely, Lestrade, and I want to know how to keep it from happening again.”

“Measures are in place, Sherlock, to keep what happened to Father⎯”

“There are no measures in place!” Sherlock roared, surging to his feet. “You cannot possibly have protections up⎯even Mother cannot keep us all safe.” He leaned over the table, only centimetres from his brother’s face as he bit out, “Tell. Me.”

Mycroft sighed and stood, tugging down his waistcoat. He caught Greg’s eye and left the room, heading for the study. The other three trailed behind him, John in the rear.

“Father was always aware that something could happen to him,” Mycroft began. “And he and Mummy took precautions to ensure that nothing would happen. But they did not count on Euryale and her hatred of the Elder Ones,” he looked at Greg and John, who looked faintly confused, “Those who came first, the gods and goddesses who helped shape the world, like Euryale and Mummy,” (Greg and John nodded) “But no one knows why Euryale has such hatred towards her fellow Elders loving humans. The first, and most likely, rumour is that she had a human lover who spurned her, but others say she loved a human and he died. No one else has loved her since, nor has she loved another, and they say that such a loss has made her bitter and angry. 

“When Euryale learned of Mummy’s bonding, it is said that she became even more dangerous than before. She went mad with jealousy and began to plot her revenge. She bade her time until Mummy and Father had everything they wanted⎯a life, love, a bond, children⎯and then she took it away.” Mycroft paused and swallowed. “I don’t remember much of the day Father died. I remember being out with Mummy and seeing her go pale. I remember flying home on her back because I was too young to keep up with her. I remember seeing Father lying facedown in the garden, surrounded by blood, with Sherlock sitting next to him, crying and begging Father to wake up.

“What I don’t remember is seeing any indication of how he died, and Sherlock was too young to have remembered anything, even when Mummy tried hypnotism to see if she could get anything from him. No one has ever asked Euryale why she did such a thing⎯in fact, she has never been formally accused of committing the crime, even though it is known that she had a part in it, even if she did not actually kill our Father. Everyone, even the Elder Ones, are afraid of her and what she can do. As the Gatekeeper of the Underworld, she has enormous power and can call upon the most vile of the dead to raise an army.”

“How do you know all of this?” Sherlock asked, finally, after allowing some time to digest this new information.

“I have my ways. I use the birds as spies, and my position has granted me access to some secrets and knowledge over the years that the general public, and nearly all of the government, has no awareness of.”

“What do we do?” John asked, ever practical.

Mycroft raised a brow at him. “Mummy was right⎯there is nothing we can do. Moriarty has remained a dark spot in my information⎯no one seems to know anything of him, other than his human criminal acts. If he is Euryale’s son, then he is extremely powerful and even more dangerous, especially since we do not know what he is capable of doing. We must simply guard ourselves as best we can.” He leveled a significant look at Gregory, who cupped his hand over his jacket pocket in a protective manner.

 

That night, Gregory dreamed of a magpie plucking at his eyes and pockets until it got hold of Mycroft’s feather and stole it away. Gregory woke from that dream sweating and swearing as he lurched upright, hands grasping at thin air in a vain effort to get his feather back. Mycroft’s hand was on his shoulder in an instant, the confusion clear in his voice as he asked him over and over what was wrong. All Gregory could do was scrabble about under his pillow in naked, blind fear until he finally found Mycroft’s feather and clutched it tightly in his hand.

“Just a dream,” Greg said with a failed attempt at a self-deprecating smile. “Nothing to worry about, honestly.”

Mycroft’s brow remained furrowed, but he seemed to acknowledge Greg’s unspoken plea of _don’t ask me to tell you it’s still too raw and fresh_ and laid back down. Soon enough, his breaths deepened as he fell back asleep. 

Gregory, on the other hand, laid awake deep into the night, clutching the feather to his chest like a talisman.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue in this chapter came from [arianedevere's](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/) wonderful transcript of TRF.

Three days before Moriarty’s trial was to begin, Sherlock went to see his brother. Mycroft was at the Diogenes Club, and when Sherlock arrived, he did not hesitate in finding his brother. Mycroft was sitting in his usual chair, engrossed in a newspaper. Sherlock stood in front of him and waited, tapping one foot silently against the thick carpet. Mycroft let him wait, finishing the paper at his own pace, before he finally folded it and looked up at Sherlock. Silently, he stood, buttoning his jacket, and led Sherlock to the room he had made his own shortly after he’d joined the club. Sherlock had the sense to wait until the door shut before he snapped, “You’ve been lying.”

Mycroft crossed over to the sidebar and picked up the decanter, arching a brow at Sherlock who shook his head impatiently. “What am I meant to have been lying about?”

“Moriarty.”

Mycroft merely frowned at him.

“Oh, don’t play the innocent with me,” Sherlock all but snarled. “You lie as easily as you breathe.”

Mycroft sat down heavily in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and calmly took a sip of his drink.

“Lestrade let something slip last night at the pub with John. John came home and told me, and from there, the deduction was simple.” Sherlock leaned down until he was only a few centimetres from his brother’s nose. “You had him in your custody. Yours, not the Met’s, and yet you said nothing about it. What did you get from him?”

“Nothing. Nothing of importance.”

“Precisely. Did it not cross your mind that I could have got more from him in one glance than you could have in two weeks?”

“Let’s not forget who taught you how to observe,” Mycroft said dryly. “And I did not tell you or Mummy because I wanted to keep you safe. None of us are aware of what he can do, and the less he is exposed to you and to Mummy to analyse your weaknesses the better.”

“And yet you let him analyse yours.”

“I don’t matter, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at him, gaping, unable to even stammer out a response to that particular bit of idiocy.

“You do matter,” Sherlock managed after he’d recovered. Then, as if he was unable to be in his brother’s presence after admitting he had an emotional connection to him, Sherlock turned on his heel and left the room, swinging the door shut with a bang.

“No,” Mycroft whispered into the empty room, “I don’t deserve to matter, not now.” He swallowed down the rest of the bitter liquid, thinking of the secrets he’d betrayed to a man who sat in a room, tied to a chair, eyes glittering with greed with every word he’d spoken.

 

***

Kitty Reilly waited for no man but one. And she wasn’t even sure if this Richard Brook was even a man⎯there was something about his eyes (cold and dead but still so piercing) that made every hair on her body shiver to attention when he spoke to her. But he’d promised her the story of a lifetime, one that would make her name. All she had to do was wait, he said, wait and follow my instructions.

She did just that⎯bought a deerstalker, made a little pin⎯and then went into the men’s toilets at Old Bailey and met Sherlock Holmes.

When the court was adjourned for the day, Kitty met Brook’s other man, a Moran (no first name given) outside the court. He handed her a slip of paper and whispered “Good job” into her ear. She fought her instinctive recoil as she slipped the paper into her pocket and forced herself to look Moran in the eye.

“I haven’t made my report yet,” she said, tugging on her purse strap.

“Haven’t you?” Moran asked, winking at her as he melted away into the crowd.

Kitty waited for three long minutes before she strode out of the building with her head held high. Anyone who looked closely enough would have seen the tremor in her hands and the tightness of her mouth and eyes.

No one noticed.

***

Moriarty’s defence went precisely the way Sherlock had said it would. The day Sherlock was tossed in a cell for contempt of court, Moriarty’s barrister had not spoken a word. The next day, John went alone, and listened in sick horror as the barrister refused to provide any witnesses in Moriarty’s defence. Moriarty turned and gave John a little shrug and a smile, but John refused to rise to the bait. 

John waited the six minutes it took the jury to reach its verdict and was not surprised when it was returned as not guilty. As the court erupted in a furor of surprised shouts, John slipped quietly out the door and rang Sherlock with the news. 

 

"Sherlock?"

There was only the sound of his breaths as Sherlock's fingers slipped on his mobile, mind already racing, planning, reacting.

"Sherlock, you know he's going to come after you. Sher--"

Sherlock dropped his mobile down onto the sofa and stood gracefully, heading into the bedroom to put on his armour. Suitably dressed, he wandered back out into the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched it on, and then set a tray for his soon-to-arrive guest. He picked up his violin, deliberately turning his back to the door, and started to play.

Moriarty's footsteps set his teeth on edge. The man moved even more silently than he or Mycroft, and that unnerved Sherlock deeply. The only solution to hide his unease was to force it all back, remember that John was coming and that he wanted Moriarty out of the flat before John arrived, and offer the man tea.

Sherlock sat and let the little man play his games, but he was disgusted with himself when he allowed himself to ask the obvious question: “Why are you doing all of this? You don’t want money or power – not really. What is it all for?”

Moriarty smirked at him. “I want to solve the problem – _our_ problem; the final problem.”

_The final problem. What the hell does he mean by final problem? Search index, results: nothing. Damn damn damn damn!_ He found that he had missed whatever else it was that Moriarty said until the man stood up and said, "I owe you a fall, Sherlock."

That little phrase made Sherlock's blood run cold. It was as he suspected: their Reichenbach hadn't occurred, not yet. _Oh, John_. The game was just beginning, and Sherlock's mind was already flipping through their various encounters over the years, hoping to find a solution he hadn't tried yet, something, anything, to prevent him having to leave John again. Sherlock’s eyes tracked Moriarty's knife carving into the apple but he said nothing, made his face carefully blank so that Moriarty could not see how fast his mind was racing. It would not do to show weakness, not in front of this madman.

 

The apple was still on the table when John raced up the stairs five minutes after Moriarty had left. John's eyes went first to him, scanning and cataloguing to ensure he was not harmed, and then fell to the apple.

"What does he mean, I O U?"

"It's nothing," Sherlock said quietly. 

"But he was here?"

"Yes."

"Did he do anything?"

"He did many things, John."

"You know what I meant."

"Just carved the apple and drank some tea."

"I'll burn that cup and saucer, shall I?"

Sherlock let his mouth twitch in a parody of a smile. "It won't help."

"But it'll make me feel better," John said, watching as Sherlock settled back into his chair, trying and failing not to flinch at the residual warmth Moriarty's body had left in the cushion.

 

Mycroft Holmes was not an unobservant man. He saw everything, and little slipped past his nets. Yet after his trial and subsequent release, James Moriarty managed to do what so few had ever done in the past: he disappeared completely. No bank accounts, no withdrawals, no mortgage payments, no hotel bills, no electric bills, no cab fares, nothing. It was as if the man simply disappeared from this world when he wasn't playing games with Sherlock. Perhaps he did leave, only to re-emerge like a siren called to sailors at sea when Sherlock struck his fancy. Whatever it was that this Moriarty did to keep himself from Mycroft's radar was both unsettling and fascinating--Mycroft wanted to know how he did it so that he could use the technique himself and also, paradoxically, to protect against others using it.

The strain of the cases that were cropping up now was wearing on Gregory. Even though Moriarty had gone to ground, crime was increasing across the city, sending he Yard into overdrive. More often than not, Gregory did not come home until late into the night and simply crashed into bed, staying long enough to snatch a few hours of sleep and then getting up before Mycroft did on most mornings to head back in to work. They had spent perhaps four hours in the past few weeks together where they weren't both sleeping, and it was starting to wear on both of them.

Gregory was good about sending texts every hour or so to reassure Mycroft that he was still alive and well. Mycroft, of course, had more tails and protections on him than there were for the Queen, but it still made him nervous to have Gregory out where he could not see him.

 

Gregory forgot his feather one day when he left the house still gripped in the fog of sleep. Mycroft himself delivered it to Gregory’s office not thirty minutes later, face like thunder as he stood in front of Gregory’s desk and thrust the feather at him like an accusation.

At first, Gregory had been so engrossed in the report he was filling out that he simply snapped, “Just drop it on the pile there, I’m busy,” without even taking his eyes off the report.

“I had rather hoped that this meant more to you than something that could be tossed around like so much rubbish.”

At the sound of his voice, Gregory’s eyes widened and his head snapped up as he stared at his partner. Mycroft still held out the feather, waiting for Gregory to realise what it was that he was holding. Slowly, Gregory’s eyes fell to the feather, and then, in a panic, he patted his pocket, closing his eyes in something like resignation when his fingers found only air. 

“Thank you,” he breathed, reaching out to take the feather.

Mycroft held on to it with a firm grip, forcing Gregory to look up at him, puzzled. “I had hoped that you would always treat this with the utmost care and attention.”

“It was just this once, Mycroft, and I am sorry. Thank you for bringing it here.” When Mycroft didn’t let go, Gregory sighed and added, “You know how tired I’ve been. I thought I had grabbed it this morning, but I didn’t. It was not intentional⎯you know that.”

“Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?” Mycroft hissed. “I asked you to swear to me that you would keep this on your person at all times. It’s absolutely vital that you do so. Do you know what I thought when I saw this lying on the bureau this morning?”

“Mycroft⎯”

“I thought you had been stolen away from our bed and that I hadn’t noticed you’d been kidnapped. I thought I would be receiving a message from Moriarty saying that you were dead. Gregory, I can’t⎯”

“Shhh.” Gregory clasped his hand over Mycroft’s. “I am fine, nothing happened. I’m sorry I forgot to grab it, and I promise it won’t happen again. Okay?”

Mycroft nodded, but his eyes still looked a little wild. Gregory’s heart broke a little to see that lost look in his eyes. “Hey.” When Mycroft met his eyes, Gregory forced a smile on his face. “I’ll leave early today. Have Anthea book us a table somewhere. I think we need a date night.”

The look of disdain over Gregory’s terminology made Gregory laugh softly. “I mean it. It’s been too long since we’ve spent any time together, and I’m sorry for that.” 

Mycroft gave him a small smile and took out his mobile. Gregory laughed at him and gave him a long, sweet kiss before he gently shoved Mycroft out the door, admonishing him to leave him be so he could get enough work done to go out that night.

Once Mycroft was safely away, he picked up the feather from his desk and ran his fingers along it, forcing his breath to calm. He hadn’t even noticed that he didn’t have the feather with him until Mycroft had shown up⎯how many more times would that happen? He’d made Mycroft a promise, and he’d inadvertently broken it⎯and what worried him most is that he knew he never would have broken this promise, not when it made sure of his safety and Mycroft’s peace of mind.

So if he wouldn’t have forgot it on his own, who or what made him forget?

Greg shivered and put the feather in his shirt pocket, close to his heart, reassured by the familiar tickle of the barbs through the weave of his shirt.

 

Two months after Moriarty’s trial, John was attempting to get money from an ATM when Mycroft’s error message appeared. Rolling his eyes, John turned around and saw the black car waiting for him at the kerb. When he got in, he sent Mycroft a quick text:

_You know, you are my brother-in-law and you can just phone me or text me if you want to talk. No funny tricks needed.  
⎯JW_

No response. John sighed and settled in for the ride, peering out the window at the large white building the car stops in front of. He got out, noted the sign on the door naming the place as the Diogenes Club, and walked in, looking around in confusion at the men sitting in silence. Walking up to one, he started to ask where he could find Mycroft, but the man refused to answer, goggling at John in a kind of panic. Without warning, two men in suits (and wearing slippers over their shoes) walked briskly in and seized John by the arms, muffling his protests as they dragged him off to a different room. When the doors opened, John saw Mycroft crack a bit of a smile before he gestured for the men to let John go. John tugged his jacket back into place and glared at Mycroft. 

“Tradition, John.”

John scoffed at that and scooped up the tabloid resting on a side table. Flipping it over, he skimmed the front page, eyes catching on the headline near the top. 

Mycroft sat down, sipped at his drink and commented, “Ms. Reilly’s doing a big expose. Someone called Brook. Recognize the name?”

“Mmm, no. School friend?”

“Of Sherlock’s?” Mycroft snorted. 

The icy glare John shot him cut off the snort and Mycroft stood, discomfited, walking over to a side table and retrieving several file folders, which he handed to John. John opened the first, frowning at the picture.

“Do you know him?” Mycroft asked.

“No, don’t even recognise him. Should I?”

“He lives two doors down from your flat. Albanian hit squad.”

John frowned, flipping through the other folders. As Mycroft listed off their names and deadly occupations, his frown grew deeper.

“Any ideas, John?”

“Ideas about what?”

“Why there are so many trained assassins living within metres of your home.”

“Not the foggiest. Why are you asking me and not Sherlock?”

Mycroft shifted a bit. “Sherlock and I are not on speaking terms as of now.”

That brought John’s attention away from the photos. “Oh? He’s not said why.”

“I rather hoped he hadn’t. Family business is all.”

“I’m family now, too,” John bristled. “Perhaps you two should remember that.” John glanced at the photos again. “This isn’t Moriarty,” he said definitively. “If it was, we would be dead by now. Hell, Sherlock would have been dead the day Moriarty was released.”

“What do you mean?” Mycroft asked sharply.

“He didn’t say?”

“What. Happened.?”

“Moriarty popped ‘round for tea and a chat, apparently.”

“When was this?”

“The day he was released.”

“What else happened?”

“You’ll have to ask your brother.”

“John⎯”

“I’m not getting in between you two. What happened, anyway? Did you nick his toys when you were young?”

“John, it is vitally important that I know what Moriarty said to him.”

“Ask him yourself.” John stood up, set the files down. “Are we finished?”

Mycroft nodded.

When John got to the door, he stopped and asked, still facing the door, “Have you told Greg the selkie story yet?”

“No,” Mycroft replied, irritated at the intrusion into his thoughts.

“You should.”

Mycroft huffed a bit.

“Mycroft.” The gentleness in John’s tone made him look up. John had turned to face him, eyes softer than his stance. “Tell him. Soon. You need to make him understand before it’s too late. He’s the one I’m most afraid for, and I know Sherlock is, too. Don’t waste anymore time⎯it was the biggest regret Sherlock had, and that I had before I, well, died. You’ll remember him forever, Mycroft⎯don’t let those memories be of regret.” Speech over, John gave a little nod, then executed a military-precise turn and left, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

Mycroft sat in his chair until the sun began to set, deep in thought. He thought of Moriarty and Sherlock sitting in 221B; he thought of Gregory and what else could possibly be done to keep him safe; he thought of what happened after Gregory died and he was left alone; finally, he thought of the story of Angus and what he could do to keep Gregory alive and well and safe long enough to make a decision. All the while, John’s words spun in his mind, mocking him. There was something he wasn’t remembering about Sherlock and John from the past, something, something, something. Finally, it came to him, and he shot up, opened the window, and changed, calling for his mother as he flew.

He followed the sound of her response to a lonely rooftop on the edge of the city.

She had barely enough time to greet him before he was changing back and letting his question spill from his lips. “Why do I remember my past lives and Sherlock did not until you showed him?”

Mummy blinked, a bit nonplussed before she carefully replied, “Because Sherlock asked me not to allow him to remember.”

“Why?”

“He said it hurt too much to remember loving John and losing him. I did not want to cause him pain, and so I took away his memories⎯I will no longer do so, now that they are bonded.”

“How many of his lives did it take before he asked you to do that?”

“Just one.”

“Then why haven’t you done so for me?”

“Oh, Mycroft,” she said gently. “I never said that I haven’t allowed you to remember your past. You wanted to remember that. What you didn’t want to remember was loving and losing him.”

“I can’t lose him, Mummy. I can’t forget him⎯I don’t want to forget him. I can’t imagine wanting to forget him.”

“You asked it of me because you were not sure if you would ever see him again. I saw differently⎯I knew that you would, so I ensured that you two would always meet, just as I did for John and Sherlock. But I honoured your wish because it was what you asked of me. If you want to change that, I will do what you ask.”

“I don’t want to forget him anymore. I can’t.”

“Then you won’t.”

“Mummy?”

“Yes, child?”

“Will you…” Mycroft cleared his throat, fighting down the lump that threatened to steal his words, “Will you change him?”

“I cannot do so unless he asks it of me.” 

“And has he asked?”

“I cannot tell you that, dear.” She gently wrapped her son in a loose embrace, pressing her cheek to his forehead. “Why do you ask?”

“John wants me to tell Gregory the story of Angus. Even Gregory’s asked me to tell him.”

“Mmm. I think it would help.”

“But what if he doesn’t understand?”

“I think you underestimate him. He knows more than you think.”

Mycroft paused, mulling this over, feeling the pieces start to come together. “I’ve loved him before, haven’t I? I must have told him this before.”

“You did. But you’ve not told him Angus’ story. You’ve never bonded, Mycroft, and while you’ve always met Gregory, you’ve not always let yourself admit you’ve fallen in love with him⎯you’ve not let yourself do so by holding yourself away. I think this time will stick, but you must tread carefully, child.”

“How do you mean?”

“You’ve held back, just a little, but enough to make him doubt. He doesn’t want to cause you pain, and so he holds himself back, too. John knows this feeling far too well from before. Talk to him. Have Gregory talk to him. Talk to Gregory. You and I both know how vulnerable he is now, and you know exactly how little I can do to protect him.”

“He’s forgot my feather once, just a few months ago,” Mycroft admitted. “It’s not happened again, but I was so angry and so scared when I saw it on the bureau. Now, all I can think of is what if it happens again? What will I do?”

“You’ll do what you can do, and I will do what I can do. That’s all any of us can do right now.”

“It’s not enough!”

“I know, child. But it will have to be until something changes.”

Mycroft closed his eyes as she kissed his brow and then disappeared.

When he returned home, Gregory was gone. Mycroft muttered a curse to the criminal classes of London and went down the hall to their bedroom. Gregory had left him a note⎯something about a kidnapping case taking him away. Mycroft crumpled the note in his fist and shrugged out of his suit, not caring where it landed or how it might wrinkle. He slid into bed and deliberately pressed his nose into Gregory’s pillow, fighting against his exhaustion. He breathed in the scent of Gregory’s shampoo and found himself falling into his dreams. 

He dreamed of every life he’d had, but this time, he remembered Gregory in every life, and felt anew the love he’d asked to keep buried over the long years. He choked back a wave of tears of joy, and let the bitter anger and self-loathing overtake him instead. He had gone for years, lifetimes, without love, or so he thought, when in reality, it had always been there in the form of this man who he held in his arms nearly every night. 

When he woke, he was still alone. He resolved to tell Gregory everything today, when both of them could meet, but little did he know that that conversation would have to wait for one simple, complicated reason: Moriarty’s plan had been sprung into action.

In fact, that conversation almost never happened at all.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue in this chapter comes from [arianedevere's](arianedevere.livejournal.com) wonderful transcript of TRF.

In all of the fuss of finding Greg and Sally in their flat, John had dropped the envelope with the dried…stuff in it and the odd, old wax seal (almost the colour of blood) on one of Sherlock’s many stacks of papers and ran out the door after his husband, Sally and Greg to head to St Aldate’s school in search of the U.S. ambassador’s children.

He followed Sherlock around the school with the rest of the Yard’s team, his shoulders tense as he looked around every corner and into every shadow, looking for any sign of the missing children. When Sherlock looked around the boys’ room, John stood off to one side, shifting his weight uneasily. Every sense he had was shouting at him that they had to hurry, hurry, hurry, and it took all he had not to shout at his husband to work faster, be even more brilliant than normal as these children were in danger.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had crouched down in front of the boy’s trunk and pulled out a package, noting the broken red wax seal before he opened the package and pulled out an edition of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. His stomach dropped as he looked at the brightly coloured cover. These stories were not the sanitised ones that were in most editions⎯they were the original gory, scary ones⎯the ones that hinted at the truths of the stories humanity didn’t want to think about. These were the stories that everyone thought were just a myth, stories told to teach children life lessons and scare them into conforming.

They were the truth.

And in that truth, Sherlock saw the story of Hansel and Gretel and all of the pieces began to fall into place.

As he stood and handed the book to John, he noted the wax seal again and peered at it more closely before surrendering it to John’s grip⎯it was a magpie.

 _Why a magpie?_ Sherlock thought as he found the empty bottle of linseed oil and called for a blacklight. Following the illuminated footsteps of the children and their kidnapper, he found more of his brain spinning around the stories he knew were in the volume currently in John’s coat pocket and the connexion Moriarty (who else could it be?) wanted him to make between the truth and a magpie.

A magpie, and the rest of his life.

 

He was still thinking about the magpie when they arrived at Bart’s, the little vials with the samples of the kidnapper’s shoeprints tucked in his pocket. He and Molly got to work on the samples, while John flipped through the books and files Molly had brought in with her. Sherlock was having trouble concentrating on the microscope in front of him as everything he could dredge up about magpies was flittering through his brain.

“You’re a bit like my dad. He’s dead,” Molly blurted after a moment of silence.

Sherlock blinked, drew back from the eyepiece. “Molly⎯”

“When he was dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely, except when he thought no one could see. But I saw him, once. He looked sad.”

“Molly⎯”

But Molly ploughed ahead, undeterred. “You look sad when you think he can’t see you.” She glanced over at John, back to Sherlock, her eyes wide and sad, too.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock blinked at her again, and she added, “And don’t just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.”

Sherlock turned slightly so that he was facing her more fully and said, quietly, “You can see me.” _And John could, too, if I wasn’t trying so hard to hide so much from him._

“I don’t count.” She cringed a bit and added, “What I’m trying to say is that, if there’s anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me.”

Now Sherlock was truly speechless. Mycroft had said, not so long ago, those exact same words to him, and just as he was then, he couldn’t force the words to come out in time to keep Molly’s expression from cracking. He opened his mouth, and what came out was a question of what he could possibly need from her, to which she simply shrugged and then asked, a bit too brightly, if he wanted crisps before striding to the door and closing it gently behind her.

John frowned a bit at the door and then down at the photo in his hand. He gave a little “ha!” of triumph, brandishing the photo at Sherlock. “I nearly forgot about this in all the rush⎯we got an envelope, filled with some dusty, crumbly stuff when I came in this afternoon⎯it had the same seal on it.” 

Sherlock crossed the lab to lean down and look at the picture more closely, and then the open book of the fairy tales, open to the story of Hansel and Gretel, caught his eye. 

“Got you,” he whispered, pulling out his mobile and texting furiously. 

“What? What is it?”

“That dust was likely breadcrumbs. And this,” he stabbed a finger at the open book, “is the story of what’s happening to those kids.”

John looked confused. “It’s just a story, Sherlock.”

“And these stories are true,” Sherlock retorted, sweeping out of the room. John shook his head and gathered up the photos before running out after his husband.

 

They were home, again, after finding the kids, after the little girl screamed bloody murder at Sherlock when they were at the Yard, after one of their friendly assassin-neighbours had just died in the street after shaking Sherlock’s hand. John leaned against the window, staring out into nothing, humming absently. 

Sherlock was sat in front of his laptop, staring fixedly at the screen, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table as he thought. “There’s a surveillance web closing in on us, right now, and they’re coming for⎯what? Me?”

John turned back from the window to look at him, still humming a bit in thought.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at him. “What’s that you’re humming?”

John stopped, startled. “Humming? Was I? I dunno, just an old tune.”

“Yes, but what is it?” Sherlock stood up, coming around the table to close the distance between them. The little video Moriarty had played in his lonely cab ride back from the Yard had had that tune just at the end, before the screen turned back to black and he’d had the driver (Moriarty) pull over. 

John pursed his lips in thought. “I don’t think it has a proper name, but it’s the song you sing when you see a magpie. Must’ve made the connexion with the seal and all.”

“Are there lyrics?” Sherlock demanded.

“What, you mean you don’t know it?”

Sherlock shook his head, impatient.

“One for sorrow, two for joy, it’s an old tradition, Sherlock, that you should always be respectful to magpies because they bring bad luck. The song’s for predicting the future⎯you see one magpie, something bad will happen; you see two, something good will happen, and so on. How haven’t you heard of this?”

“It’s not one I’m familiar with,” Sherlock said. “I deleted Mother’s stories if they seemed based only on coincidence, like the human obsession with assigning the future to a random number of birds.”

“But what does that tell us? Is Moriarty a magpie?”

“I doubt that,” Sherlock answered. “The son of Euryale, a Gorgon, who’s a bird? No, I don’t think he is one, but I do believe he likes the symbolism.”

“And the assassins living here? The ones who are sent to keep you safe? The surveillance?”

“Get Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said in response, spinning away from him to inspect their bookshelves. “I need to know about the dusting.”

And sure enough, with Mrs Hudson and John looking on, he found the small camera, hidden up on the top shelf of the bookcase nearest the window. 

Just as he turned around with the camera in his hand, Lestrade came running up the stairs. Sherlock’s gaze flicked over him and he said, bluntly, “No, Inspector.”

Lestrade glanced at John, then said, “What? You haven’t heard the question!”

“You want to take me to the station. Just saving you the trouble of asking.” Sherlock sat at the laptop again, plugging in the little camera. “It was the scream, wasn’t it? The scream, and I’d imagine Donovan and possibly Anderson, if he’d grown a backbone, putting that little bit of doubt into your head. You see?” he said, only glancing at Lestrade’s guilty expression, “He’s got to you, too. Moriarty’s good. All he wants is to destroy me⎯with one photograph of you bringing me in, my reputation starts to shatter, and he wins. So, no, Inspector,” he said, pulling up the camera’s footage, “I shall not be going in to the station with you.”

Lestrade looked at John again, but there was no help there in the icy glare that John was sending him. With a soft sigh, Lestrade left again, his steps heavy as he went down the stairs. 

John crossed over to the window and watched them pull away, face drawn with tension. The way Sally had looked at them, after, when they were leaving the Yard was niggling at him. He knew what she was thinking, and the worst, the fucking worst, thing was that a very, very small part of him was thinking it too.

_I know him. I know he would never do something like this; he’d not even think of doing it. This has Moriarty written all over it⎯I know it, but then why do I feel like this?_

“He’s got to you, too.” Sherlock didn’t even look up from the screen. “He’s like a virus, or a snake, crawling in and spreading doubt, even in you.”

“No, I know you for real.”

“Do you?”

“Of course I do.” And just like that, the doubt disappeared like so much black smoke. “I’ve known you all our lives.”

Sherlock smiled at him then, just a little. “Maybe that will be enough to get us through this,” he said, but he didn’t acknowledge John’s puzzled look. 

 

Back at the Yard, Greg sat down heavily behind his desk for only five minutes before Sally leaned her head around the doorjamb and announced that the Super wanted to see them. Greg nodded and waited until she left before he dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his temples, gathering his strength.

The meeting went just as Greg thought it would, dread sitting in his stomach like lead. He’d been raked over for allowing a private citizen in on cases, and nothing he could say would keep the Super from ordering a warrant for Sherlock’s arrest, one that was to be carried out immediately.

Upon his dismissal from the meeting (Greg didn’t look at either Sally or Anderson for fear of doing something that would get him fired on the spot), he hurried to his office to gather his things and called John with a warning. John hung up with a curt “Thanks,” and Greg felt his shoulders tense even more. He hesitated for a moment, twirling his mobile in his fingers before he finally unlocked it and opened a text to Mycroft. He paused to consider how he would word this question before he finally thought _fuck it_ and typed and hit send before he could think too much more about it.

_Do you have an alibi for Sherlock for two days ago, sometime during the afternoon?  
G_

Mycroft’s answer was immediate. _Why?_

Greg’s mouth tightened as he stood up and pulled on his coat, tugging the collar in close. His mobile buzzed again.

_What do you think has happened?_

_Nothing, I hope  
G_

_What do you need?_

Greg stopped in his tracks, ignoring Sally’s impatient huff as he typed, _A bloody fucking miracle_ and resolutely shut the little phone off after the message sent.

 

Less than two hours after he’d left the first time, Greg found himself mounting the stairs to 221b, another officer behind him. He found himself reciting Sherlock’s rights in a near monotone as the handcuffs were put on and Sherlock was marched back downstairs. John was glaring at him, looking at him as if he’d never seen Greg before.

To be honest, Greg wasn’t sure he knew himself anymore. Not after tonight.

When John voiced his protest, Greg leaned in ( _oh, please, John, catch my hint_ ) and snapped, “Don’t try to interfere, or I shall arrest you, too.” He turned and left with a curt nod to Mrs Hudson, who was in tears, and waited outside, hoping that John would catch on.

Sure enough, not two minutes later, the Super came down, clutching his bleeding nose (Greg had to fight to keep the grin off his face), closely followed by John, who was unceremoniously slammed against the car next to Sherlock. 

And trust Sherlock to make the most dramatic escape possible as he brandished the gun and shouted at all of them to get on their knees. Moments later, he and John were running off, and all Greg could think was, _Run, and be safe._

 

Running while handcuffed together was not the easiest of tasks, John thought as he got slammed into a fence that Sherlock cleared without a second thought for his much shorter husband. But the running was nothing compared to the racing, sickening thought that sprang, unbidden, into his mind as they stared down at yet another dead assassin (this one, at least, told them what it was they wanted⎯the computer code Moriarty left during his visit to their flat). And that thought was: _it’s all ending soon. Soon. Soon. Soon._

Sherlock pulled them to a stop a short distance away from the body, explaining as they caught their breath that the code was just another way to smear his name⎯make it look like he was selling something invaluable to the criminals, and the great detective seems to be nothing more than a criminal himself. John glanced down at the newspapers stacked next to the doorway and snatched the top one off. The headline screamed about a new expose on Sherlock Holmes, written by one Kitty Reilly⎯it was the same newspaper Mycroft had shown him at the club that morning. 

Sherlock’s lip curled when John showed it to him and asked about Rich Brook.

“Who is he?” John asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Sherlock said, pulling him towards the street.

 

They sat in the dark, pressed close together on Kitty’s couch, waiting for her to come home. Sherlock’s fingers were clenched tightly around John’s, and the dread that had been simmering behind John’s heart all night finally burst.

“Do you know what ya’aburnee means, Sherlock?”

“No.”

John swallowed hard. “It’s Arabic, I heard it in Afghanistan, from one of the translators who was explaining some customs to us. It means…” John broke off and rubbed at his eyes, which were suddenly wet. He gathered up his courage and blurted, “It means ‘you bury me’ as a way to say that you hope you die before the person you love so that you don’t have to live through the agony of being without them. And I know it’s selfish, I do, but I have to say it’s true. It’s true for me, Sherlock, and I know I’m rambling, but I can’t help but feel the inevitability of something horrible waiting for us, and I just, I just have to say it. There is no me without you. I don’t know how I would survive without you. I can’t fathom how you lived without me, just from what you told me it was like.”

“It was a near thing,” Sherlock confessed in a whisper.

“I know, I know,” John whispered into his neck. “I know and I’m sorry but I can’t. I just can’t.” John’s tears were dampening his collar and Sherlock closed his eyes. “Just promise me Sherlock, promise me that everything will be all right.”

“I promise,” Sherlock said, heart breaking in two as he lied and lied and held John, whom he did not deserve, even closer and whispered over and over again, hoping that some part of this would lodge itself in John’s consciousness and remain there, comforting him in the lonely days and months ( _and oh, Gods, please not years, not years, never that, please_ ) that lay ahead of them. 

He kissed John’s forehead, his temple, his cheeks. He kissed away the tears that were falling more slowly now as John rose up and captured his lips in a searing kiss that left both of them breathless. When they pulled apart, it was only just far enough to fumble their trousers open. 

When John’s hand closed around him, Sherlock’s breath stuttered and then stopped before he finally opened his eyes in the darkness, straining to see some glimpse of John as his hand slid slowly up and down. Sherlock reached out to John and gently brushed one long finger from root to tip, making his husband gasp a quiet curse and press up in search of more contact. Sherlock obliged by tugging on John’s free hand, the one cuffed to his own, pulling John onto his lap and pressing up, up until their cocks lined up. He closed his hand around them both and encouraged John into a gentle rocking that pushed them both together. John moaned and dug his free hand into Sherlock’s hair, pulling him down into a heated kiss as he rocked faster until he let go with a harsh sob of Sherlock’s name. 

Sherlock’s own orgasm was an afterthought, lost in the midst of cataloguing everything about John in the throes of orgasm that he could. He knew, deep in his gut, behind his heart, that this was the last time he would experience this for a long while, and he wanted to ensure that he could recall this moment, this John who was his, in perfect detail whenever he wanted. When John had calmed and cleaned them both up a little, he carefully tucked them both away and John, reluctantly, settled back down next to him, pressed as close as he could, thigh to shoulder, to wait for Kitty to return.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue in this chapter comes from [arianedevere's](arianedevere.livejournal.com) wonderful transcript of TRF.

Greg’s steps were heavy as he walked into the darkened study, pausing at the door when he heard Mycroft’s voice (it sounds deeper, hoarser than normal) and the soft squall of a bird. Greg stepped fully into the small circle of light that surrounded part of the sofa. Mycroft was there, as a raven, speaking to a small, unobtrusive bird Greg couldn’t identify. When the strange bird was done, Mycroft nodded and the bird flew out the open window.

“Leave it open, please,” Mycroft croaked, stopping Greg’s hand in midair.

Greg complied, then sat on the sofa, drawing one leg up to sit side on so he could look at his partner. “What was that about?”

“A report,” Mycroft said, ducking his head to preen his chest feathers.

“A report on what?”

“On what you just did.”

Greg’s jaw clenched. “Are you spying on me?”

“Do not act as if you did not suspect it. Ever since Moriarty has made his presence known, I have had the birds keeping watch over you.” Mycroft stared at him, daring him to retort. “I want answers.”

“You want me to defend myself? What I just did bought your brother and John more time. I nearly got myself dismissed from the Yard, and you want answers? Here are your fucking answers, then. Moriarty set up a kidnapping, and because your charming brother has managed to piss off nearly every person at the Yard, when the little girl was recovered, she screamed her head off at her first glance at Sherlock. Thanks to his less than stellar record of being sympathetic, and due to Sally Donovan’s prejudice against him, I got dragged onto the rug to defend my decisions to use him on cases. The Super disapproved of my doing so, even though he knew full well that we’d been consulting with Sherlock for years now. I suspect that Moriarty’s been leaning on the Super, too. I went to bring Sherlock in myself, hoping that I could get this brushed aside if he cooperated. He refused, and so I had no choice but to come back with a warrant. And to ensure it got carried out, the Super decided he had to come too. So I warned John, and went back, against my better judgment, and placed Sherlock under arrest. John took my hint about following him, and punched the Super in the nose, and God, do I wish I’d got to see that. They both were arrested, Sherlock was clever enough to escape, and I managed to convince the Super not to pursue them. I told him that Sherlock had far too many hiding places scattered all over the city, and setting up surveillance on the most likely places he’d go was a better strategy. I was ordered to provide this list, which I faked, of course, and was told to go home and await further instructions. So, here I am.”

“I fail to see how that falls under protecting him. He’s now gone so far underground that I cannot track him.”

Greg paled. “What do you mean?”

“After your little escapade, Sherlock and John were tracked to a back alley only a few city blocks away, and then, after one of their assassin neighbours was killed in an attempt to save them, they disappeared. So, now, Inspector, I have Moriarty, whom I cannot track, trace, or find, on the loose with Sherlock and John, whom I cannot locate, flying blind into a situation that could end up killing one or both of them.”

“Mycroft, I had⎯”

“No idea? Yes, I suspected as much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my brother.”

“Wait.” Greg reached out a finger, and Mycroft, after hesitating for a painful moment, perched on the very tip of it, watching Greg warily. “Go to your club,” Greg said. “John knows that it’s a safehouse, and one or both of them might end up there soon.”

Mycroft tilted his head, considering Greg with one ice-blue eye before he took flight. Greg watched him leave, and then shut the window with a quiet click, leaning his forehead against the cold glass.

 

Hearing this utter shite about Moriarty being Richard Brook, an actor Sherlock supposedly hired to play Moriarty was making John’s head spin. This Kitty Reilly must have swallowed a load of shite in order to believe Moriarty was really some out-of-work actor, and then to see Moriarty walk into her flat as if he belonged there, to see him carry on this act, made John burn with a strange anger he’d not felt before. He could feel something tingling just under his skin, making his heart thrum and his fingers flex. Sherlock’s glance calmed him somewhat, but the feeling didn’t exactly subside. It wasn’t until Sherlock ran back down Kitty’s stairs (and John felt a slight twinge of guilt for pushing the woman out of his way) that John realised it must be some form of magic, perhaps the same that Mycroft and Mum had used to rip Moriarty to pieces at the pool. But before he could ask Sherlock what it all meant: the feeling still rushing in his blood, the story Kitty wrote in the folder he was holding, how the hell Moriarty had _known_ all of this about Sherlock, Sherlock was already pulling away, shrinking into himself.

“Can I help?” John asked, reaching out to his partner.

“No,” Sherlock said, looking John straight in the eye. “I have to do it on my own,” he finished even as he changed and flew, faster than John had ever known him to, too fast for John to hope to follow, into the night.

John stood in the middle of the dark street for a moment, deep in thought, before he turned around and strode off. If he couldn’t get answers from Sherlock at the moment, he would settle for the next best person⎯Mycroft. 

 

The guilt of leaving John behind and in the dark, both literally and figuratively, nearly made Sherlock turn back, but his resolve held on by a thread as he flew fast and hard, wings pumping as quickly as he could force them to. He flew to Bart’s, knowing that Molly would just be finishing her shift. He changed and slipped in through one of the barely used maintenance doors on the roof, moving quickly and silently down to the morgue. 

Molly was just turning off the lights when he spoke. “You’re wrong, you know.” Molly gasped and jumped a little as Sherlock moved out of the shadows. “You do count. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you.” He let one side of his mouth twitch in a sad smile. “But you were right. I’m not okay.”

Molly watched him, eyes steely. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Molly, I think I’m going to die.” And that was hard, hard to say to a woman he had hardly noticed until it was too late, a woman he needed now as much as he needed his mother, whom he had to speak with next. 

“What do you need?”

Good. No quaver in her voice. She was strong, and if she could do this, all of them would be in her debt. But he had to tread carefully here, as he didn’t want to put her in further danger. He cleared his throat and asked, “If I wasn’t everything that you think I am – everything that I think I am – would you still want to help me?”

Molly’s chin came up as she repeated, “What do you need?”

“You.” He pulled out a stool and sat. She took off her bag and coat and sat down across the bench from him, nodding as he started to talk. 

Forty-five minutes later, their plan in place, Sherlock left Molly to secure her supplies as he crept back up to the roof and changed. He perched on the edge of the roof for a moment and called softly for his mother, knowing that she would answer quickly if he let his distress come through in his cry. Her response rang in his ears, and he changed course to follow her call. When he arrived, he nearly gasped at how haggard she looked, how tired and drawn she was, and his heart was heavy at the thought that he was about to add a even greater burden on her shoulders. She was watching him, almost wary, as he approached her. He didn’t greet her with a kiss or a smile, as he normally did. Instead, he stood before his mother, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and said, “Mother, I have to ask you to do something for me.”

“What is it you need?”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “I need you to hide my bond with John.”

The Morrighan said nothing. She did not need to. She had dropped the thin veil of her human disguise and stood before her son radiant in her rage, glorious in her fury and sorrow. Sherlock could not meet her eyes. 

Finally, she calmed enough to hiss, “Never in all of your lives have I wanted to strike you down, if only to put some sense into your head! Why, why would you ever ask this of me?”

“I wish there was another way. I don’t have time to tell you everything now, Mother, but I can tell you, briefly, why I need you to do this.”

“Explain.”

“Mother⎯”

“Now.”

“Moriarty. He’s got a plan that requires me to die, or appear to die⎯I have a plan in place to keep me alive⎯but John and Lestrade are in danger. If it is not utterly convincing, if Moriarty and his men are not completely sure of my demise, they will kill John and Lestrade. Neither of them can know that I am alive, and our bond will let John know that. He must not know for his own safety. You and I both know what Moriarty is capable of, now. John must be kept safe. This has happened before, Mother, you know that. I must eliminate the rest of Moriarty’s network before we all can be safe.”

“Why can you not take John with you?”

“Because he must play the role of the grieving widower. He has to be kept in the dark so that he can convince those who might be watching him that I am truly dead. Taking him with me eliminates that option.”

“Do you have any idea what this will do to you? To John? Hiding your bond from him will be the same as if you were dead, Sherlock. And if I hide it from him, I must hide it from you as well.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered, throat tight. “I wish there was another way.”

“I will do this, only because I can see a kernel of wisdom in what you have said. But be aware, Sherlock, of the grave consequences you will face upon your return. John may have forgiven you in your pasts, but he may not in this present.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. The Morrighan watched him for a moment, sensing there was something else he wanted to say. “Mother, would you keep him safe? Would you watch over him and make sure he lives? Would you keep Mycroft and Greg safe?” He paused and then continued in a smaller voice, “And would you watch over me, too?”

“Sherlock,” his mother said, gentling a little from her wrath, “I have always watched over you, and I will always do so. I will do my best with your John.

“But, child, do not think for one moment that I approve of your plan, and know that your husband will not either. I do not wish for you to lose him because of your actions. I can only hope that you understand this and that you know the outcome better than I.”

Sherlock nodded, beyond words now. The end was coming ever nearer, and he had to return to Bart’s for the endgame. His mother stepped forward and kissed his brow, cupping his cheek in her hand. 

“Go,” she said. “Go, and be brave and true. Tell him you love him.” Her voice broke. “Tell him you love him, because that is what will sustain him through your absence. If he is like me, he will hear you say it every night in his dreams, just as your father does for me.”

Sherlock looked at her for a long moment. “I may not be able to see you for a long time,” he whispered. “I don’t know how well Moriarty and his kind can track you, and I cannot risk you, too.”

“I will come to you when I can, child,” the Morrighan said, “But I will never be far. Do not ever think that you cannot call for me, if you need me. I will risk anything for you and your husband and your brother, just as you will for your John.”

He looked down at the ground, unable to meet her eyes. If he looked at her now, he would never leave, and that would be the end of everything. “Thank you, Mummy,” he finally whispered as he heard the crack that signalled her departure. He sighed and turned in a small circle, breathing in deeply before releasing his breath in a second sigh as he changed back.

The flight back to Bart’s was uneventful, and as he landed on the roof for the last time that night, he turned back over his shoulder in time to see his mother’s wing flicker out of existence. He pulled out his phone and sent a series of quick texts, with the final one summoning John to Bart’s. With those pieces of the plan in place, he sat down on the edge of the roof, letting his legs hang over the edge. He pulled John’s feather from his coat pocket and held it up at eye level, watching as the air buffeted the fine barbs near the end of the vane. He brought it in close, inhaling the smell of tannin, wool, and _John_ that was imbued deeply in every molecule of that feather, before resting it in his lap as he watched the moon sink lower and lower.

Six hours to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow, I am so sorry it's taken this long for an update! Life got crazy for a while, and I just lost the time to write. The next chapter or two should be much faster as I've already got large chunks of them written.
> 
> Thank you for reading, kudosing, commenting, and reccing! It means so much to me to know that people are enjoying this little story. :)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue comes from [arianedevere's](arianedevere.livejournal.com) wonderful transcript of TRF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, if you're wanting mood music, the songs for this part are "Prepared to Do Anything" and "Blood on the Pavement" from the Sherlock Series 2 OST.

Still sitting on Barts’ roof, Sherlock watched the moon fall ever lower. He finally put John’s feather safely back in his shirt pocket and then pulled out his mobile. Twirling it thoughtfully for a moment, he finally opened a new text and typed quickly, his fingers perfectly steady as he signed his own death warrant. 

_Come and play._  
Bart’s Hospital rooftop.  
8 AM  
⎯SH 

 

Mycroft’s been at the Diogenes for enough years that when he gives the few patrons who still linger late at night a particular look, they simply nod and leave the outer rooms of the Club for the first floor bedrooms (used for those who all but live at the Club⎯Mycroft used to use them on occasion himself, before Gregory). Once the last of them had shuffled quietly out, Mycroft sat in front of the fire, steepled his fingers, and waited.

It took a stiff neck (really, how did Sherlock maintain that position for so long without complaint?) to get him up again. He went into his own private room and started to close the door, but stopped when he saw John’s shoulder just over the edge of one of the chairs. Mycroft let out a huff of a breath, and closed the door behind him, pausing to gather himself for what he was sure was going to be a difficult conversation. 

“You know,” John stated bluntly, “I’m not as thick as you and Sherlock seem to think I am. I’ve been reading Ms. Reilly’s file on this Richard Brook, a.k.a Jim Moriarty. She got a hell of a lot from him⎯more than he would ever have known unless Sherlock, Mum, you, or I talked to him. I know Mum wouldn’t speak to him, I most certainly didn’t, so that leaves you.”

Mycroft came around and sat down heavily in the chair opposite John. John’s eyes were narrowed in anger and they flicked over his face just like Sherlock’s did.

“So, when was it?” John spat. “Did you and he go out and have a few down the pub while you gave up Sherlock’s entire life story?”

“John, I never⎯” 

John snorted.

“I never intended for this to go as far as it did,” Mycroft said firmly. “Yes, I had him in custody⎯” John looked up in surprise at that⎯ “and yes, I talked to him. But it was a last resort. No one could get a word out of him, until finally, I went in and started talking to him. You should have seen how he looked at me, all hunched over like a beetle, coiled like a snake ready to strike. It was obvious to me that his own childhood had not been one full of love or laughter or even companionship. He said nothing until I had given him everything I could of Sherlock, and even what he did say ended up being lies.”

“How could you do this? How could you give up your own brother? You know that Moriarty wants to do nothing but destroy him, and you just gave him the bloody keys to do it!” John stood up and began to pace in tight circles, hands flexing at his sides. “Sherlock was all but saying goodbye to me not even two hours ago. He knows something might happen, and you’re the one responsible. You gave Moriarty everything he needed to know Sherlock’s weaknesses.”

“Sherlock doesn’t have any weaknesses.”

John stopped and stared Mycroft down. “You. Me. Greg. Mum. Mrs. Hudson.”

Mycroft blinked. 

“He has a heart, Mycroft, a bloody great heart, and he cares too much about us to let us come to harm.”

John started for the door, opened it, and then turned back, one hand still gripping the handle. “In fact, you could learn from him. About caring, that is.” He looked Mycroft in the eye and added, “I almost hope Greg doesn’t let you bond to him. Not until you learn what it means to truly protect the ones you care about.” He slipped out as quietly as he’d come in, leaving Mycroft to stare after him in the dim firelight.

 

It took John a few moments to realise his mobile was buzzing in his pocket. He’d left the club in a cloud of anger, and took to wandering the streets, sticking to the alleys and un-monitored spots Sherlock and he used when they were avoiding the Yard and Mycroft’s attentions.

_Bart’s, the morgue. Come if convenient.  
⎯SH_

John smiled as he waited for the second text, as was tradition. His mobile buzzed again.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. Could be dangerous.  
⎯SH_

Tucking the mobile safely away, John stepped out into the light and raised his hand for a taxi. 

When John arrived in the morgue, which always seemed to be a bit colder in the middle of the night, Sherlock was there, bouncing a small rubber ball against the counter, rolling it under his palm when he got tired of catching it. John, used to his husband’s nervous tics, said nothing of it. 

“Why are we here?” John asked after a few hours of silence. He’d given up on prodding Sherlock with questions after an hour of receiving no response, and hearing his voice in the quiet morgue made him wince slightly.

“Because this is the last place the Yard will be looking for us. Lestrade will keep them away from here for as long as possible.”

“Other than that. You’re nervous, love. What do you know?”

Sherlock huffed, pulling himself to his feet. He stretched out the kinks in his back caused from sitting on the cold floor and started pacing, refusing to meet John’s eyes. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know. Moriarty wants something, the assassins want something. I don’t know if it’s the same thing.” He had to throw John off, he had to, or else his carefully constructed plan would come to nothing.

“You think Moriarty left something at the flat. The assassins only started bothering us after he ‘came for tea,’ as you put it.”

“Possibly,” Sherlock grunted. “But I can’t know for sure until I can get back to the flat, and that won’t happen until Mycroft gets these ridiculous charges against us waived.” He turned, eyes flicking over John for a moment. He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around John’s waist. Since John was on a stool, his shoulder was at the perfect height to rest his chin. He placed a careful, lingering kiss to John’s temple and murmured, “You’re exhausted. Get some sleep. I need to think.”

He let his hands rub up and down John’s back in a slow, hypnotic rhythm that had John’s head drooping, and then finally, resting on his crossed arms as he dropped off to sleep. Even long after John’s quiet snores filled the room, Sherlock couldn’t quite force himself to stop touching John. He knew that what was coming in only two hours would change John’s opinion of him forever⎯he could only hope that one day, John would be able to look past his actions and words for what they really were⎯a means to an end to save his life.

 

Two hours later, Sherlock’s mobile chimed. It was a text from one of his contacts in the homeless network, asking if he should ring John with the news of Mrs. Hudson’s (fake) gunshot wound. Sherlock lowered his mobile, looking at John one last time before he sent back one word:

_Yes_

John’s mobile rang, and the world spun away. 

“Who was it?” Sherlock asked, aiming for unconcerned, when John, breath coming fast and hard through his nose, rang off. 

“Paramedics,” John snapped, already shrugging his coat on. “Mrs. Hudson’s been shot. Come on, we’re leaving.”

“You go. I’m busy.”

John spun toward him, eyes blazing. “You’re what?”

“I told you earlier, I need to think. Go on.”

“It’s Mrs. Hudson! Doesn’t she mean anything to you? If I recall correctly, you once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her.”

Sherlock hid his wince as he retorted, “She’s my landlady.”

“She’s dying, Sherlock. We have…you…you machine!” John took a menacing step toward him, then thought better of it, stepping back and folding in on himself until he looked almost small, defeated. “Sod this. If you want to stay here and think, then fine. Do it on your own. I never thought you were so heartless, Sherlock.”

“Alone is what I have, John. Alone protects me.”

“Not anymore,” John snapped. “You have me, now. We made vows, Sherlock. Don’t they mean anything to you?” He was out the door before Sherlock could reply, letting the door slam shut behind him.

“More than you know,” Sherlock whispered into the empty room. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. That…was not good. His mobile trilled gaily, incongruous with the mood hanging over the room. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter before he opened them and pulled out his mobile with fingers that trembled just ever so slightly.

_I’m waiting...  
JM_

Slowly, deliberately, he put the phone back in his pocket, stood up, pulled on his coat, strode to the door, and opened it. His steps were slow and even as he walked to the roof access door. He paused for a moment with his hand on the handle before shaking his head and blowing out a quiet breath as he opened the door and stepped out into the bright sunlight of a beautiful June morning.

Moriarty was already there, of course, sitting on the edge of the roof, his mobile held in one hand as “Stayin’ Alive” blared tinnily through the small speaker at the base of the phone.

Sherlock paused for a moment at the odd choice of song before Moriarty pushed a button on the phone to silence it.

“Here you are at last, Sherlock. Just you, and me, and our little problem. Our final problem, if you will. Staying alive. Isn’t it boring?”

Sherlock paced in front of him, hands clasped behind his back. “Not as such, no.”

“Oh, but you’ve got your little pet birdy now. I’d nearly forgot about him.” Moriarty stood up and straightened his own coat. “But he’s made you so boooring! All of our lives, you’ve been such a wonderful distraction, and now you’re just not a challenge anymore.” He shrugged a bit. 

Sherlock stopped pacing, rocking on his heels, peering down at Moriarty. “And why is that?”

“Because he made you ordinary!”

“But why did you come back? You’ve never come back from the dead before, not until I died and was reborn. What changed?”

“Oh, I didn’t change, my dear,” Moriarty purred. “You did. You fell in love,” he spat, “And it made you complacent. My dear mummy doesn’t like it when I’m unhappy. She doesn’t approve of love, either.”

“I’ve always been in love, every time, even if I never said it,” Sherlock whispered. 

Moriarty’s face twisted in a sneer. “But this time you bonded with that disgusting little man, and now nothing will ever be the same between us. Not unless I can change it.”

“What do you mean, change it?”

Moriarty grinned at him. “I created this little games, Sherlock, all for you. The bombs, the pool, the kidnapping, the missing painting, the break-ins. All of it, for you. Just to get you out to play, to make it like old times. But then you had to go and ruin it with your stupid sentimentality and your little bit on the side⎯” Sherlock’s hands clenched at that, and Moriarty’s grin grew wider, “⎯and so I had to resort to drastic measures. Once you’d bonded with your pet, I asked my mother to bring me back, and she was all too happy to let me ruin your happiness, as hers has been destroyed. I came back, I let big brother catch me, made him tell me your life story, and then set all of this into motion.”

“This is all because you were jealous?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it jealousy,” Moriarty purred, “more like maintaining our status quo. Glad you remembered how the story goes. Good choice, choosing a tall building. Makes it easier.”

“Makes it easier⎯ah, yes. My suicide. Disgraced detective jumps rather than face a lifetime of irrelevancy.” Sherlock paused, looked down at his feet, fingers running over the small rubber ball still clenched in his fist. One thumb rubbed at the small mic he’d hidden in his cuff⎯if all went to plan, Molly should be able to get the recording from the small box he’d left in the morgue and use it to clear everything up. 

John sprang out of the taxi when it stopped in front of Speedy’s. He didn’t even register that there were no police cars, no ambulances, nothing outside the flat as he barreled through the door, nearly running into Mrs. Husdon.

Who was healthy and whole and lecturing him on scaring a body half to death.

 _Oh, God, no. Sherlock!_ John thought as he started to back away. 

“John? Has Sherlock sorted everything out with the police?”

“I…I don’t know. I’ve got to go. Stay inside, though, until we get back, yeah?” He glanced down at the bloke who had been in and out replacing the wainscoting in Mrs. Hudson’s flat before he nodded at Mrs. Hudson and ran out the door.

“Taxi!” John shouted at the cab that pulled up across the street. He sprinted for it, nearly shoving the man the cab had originally stopped for out of the way, crying, “Police!” as he flung himself into the cab.

“St. Bart’s,” he barked to the cabbie, “As fast as you can, please.”

 

Sherlock turned back at the edge of the roof, staring down Moriarty, who was examining his fingernails, seemingly unconcerned. “I can still prove you created a false identity, that all of Kitty’s story is fake.”

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Oh, just kill yourself. Much easier.”

Sherlock stared at him, mind racing. 

“Pleeeeaaaase?” Moriarty whined.

Sherlock grabbed him by the collar and held him out over the edge. “You’re insane,” he spat, fingers curled into the fabric.

“You’re just getting that?” Moriarty drawled, seemingly unconcerned that he was being held over a drop that would kill him if Sherlock let go. “Let me give you a little more incentive.”

Sherlock frowned at him.

“All your friends will die if you don’t.”

A wave of ice-cold panic crashed through Sherlock’s chest, making his heart thud loudly in his ears. “John,” he whispered, swallowing thickly around his husband’s name.

“Not just John,” Moriarty grinned, “Mrs. Hudson, that DI you’re so fond of. All three of them will die. Three bullets, three snipers. Nothing will stop them except…”

“Seeing me die,” Sherlock finished, staring out over Moriarty’s shoulder.

“Genius, isn’t it?” 

“I die in disgrace, and your little story comes true.” He backed away from the edge, dragging the smaller man in his grasp back with him. 

“Kills two birds with one stone,” Moriarty said, sniggering at his pun. “Now, go on. Off you pop.” He stood aside, sweeping one arm towards the roof. “Oh, and don’t think, Sherlock, that your little birdy trick will keep you and your little pets safe. The snipers know what to look for.”

Sherlock, staring straight ahead of him, eyes unfocused, stepped up onto the roof edge. His heart was pounding so loudly that he nearly didn’t hear what Moriarty was saying.

“Your death is the only thing that’s gonna call off the snipers. I’m certainly not going to be the one to do it.” Moriarty clapped his hands together with glee. “So go on, be noble and self-sacrificing and all that tripe. Do it.”

Sherlock looked down at him. “Would you…would you give me a moment of privacy, please?”

Moriarty rolled his eyes but stepped back a bit. Sherlock looked out over the rooftops of the city he loved so dearly, searching for one particular person⎯ah, there she was. Mother was there, as she said she would be, watching him from a rooftop just across the way. He gave her a tiny nod and started to think. If there was any way he could get out of this to spare John the pain of having their bond hidden and his husband apparently dead, he would do it. Then, as he replayed Moriarty’s words, he started to laugh. 

“What? What did I miss?” Moriarty spluttered as Sherlock turned around and stepped off the edge.

“ _I’m_ not going to call off the snipers? That means that you can⎯there’s some code word you’ve got to recall them.” He started to circle around Moriarty, sing-songing, “I don’t have to die, if I’ve got you.”

“You think you can _make_ me call them off? There is nothing on this earth that would make me do that.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, “Yes, I can. And you know it.”

“Sherlock, not even your brother and all of his minions could make me do something I didn’t want to do.”

“But I’m not my brother, am I? I am you⎯I am prepared to do anything to protect the people I love. Do you want me to shake hands with you in front of your mother’s gate? I shall not disappoint you.”

For the first time, Moriarty looked nervous. “Naah, you wouldn’t. You’re one of them⎯you’re on the side of the angels.”

Sherlock went in for the kill, leaning in close enough to map out the capillaries in the whites of Moriarty’s eyes. “Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.” He let a smile slip out. “You have no idea the lengths I’d go to to protect what’s mine. You’ve no concept of what the mere thought of losing a bond will do to a man.”

They locked eyes for a long moment, gauging the other’s sincerity. Moriarty was the first to blink, to pull back a little and whisper, “No, you’re not. You are me.”

Sherlock watched him warily as Moriarty held out his hand. 

“You are me. Thank you. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock shook his hand, still eyeing the other man warily.

“As long as I’m alive, you’ve still got a chance to save your pets. Well, good luck with that” Moriary said, pulling Sherlock in tighter as he reached into his pocket with his free hand, pulling out a gun and aiming it into his own mouth. Sherlock recoiled in horror as Moriarty pulled the trigger and dropped to the ground, blood pouring from the back of his head.

Sherlock spun away, hands clenched tightly in his hair as he sought out his mother again. He met her eye, and then looked down. A cab was pulling up across from Bart’s’ entrance, and John was stepping out of the cab. Sherlock fumbled for his mobile, pressing the button to dial John. Just as John turned away from the cabbie’s window, his phone started ringing.

“Hello?”

“John.”

“Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”

“Turn around and walk back the way you came now. Please.” Sherlock heard his voice start to crack, and held firm.

“No, I’m coming in.”

Sherlock nearly dropped the mobile, his fingers were sharking so badly. “Just do as I ask. Please.”

John turned back, looking a bit lost as he walked back towards where the cab had dropped him off. “Where?”

“Stop there. Right there.” 

“Sherlock?” John stopped in his tracks and started looking around. He was standing nearly directly under Mother, now, who was still perched on the roof across from Sherlock. She’d promised not to interfere, but Sherlock could see her distress from here.

John was not supposed to be here.

But he was, and Sherlock was oddly glad. He took a deep breath and said, “Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.”

“Oh God.” John’s voice was horrified, but there was a trickle of denial there, too.

“I ... I ... I can’t come down, so we’ll ... we’ll just have to do it like this.”

 

Now John’s hand was clenching⎯he could see it moving even from up here. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. Here was the hard part. “An apology. It’s all true.”

“Wh-what?” John swallowed down the thousand questions he wanted to ask. “What’s all true?”

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.” He turned to glance over his shoulder at Moriarty’s body, lying still and cold on the roof behind him.

“Why are you saying this?”

At the despair in John’s voice ( _Please, God, don’t let him remember how our story ends⎯he has to believe I’m gone. Oh, John, I’m sorry, forgive me please. I have to keep you safe I have to I have to I have to_ ), Sherlock finally let the tears that were threatening break his voice. “I’m a fake.”

John was shaking his head. “Sherlock ...”

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

John was shaking his head even more vehemently now. “Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. I’ve known you for all of our lives. I _know you,_ Sherlock Holmes. You’ve always known everything about me, without me ever having to tell you.”

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could. You are.”

Sherlock let himself laugh fondly at John’s insistence at always seeing the best in him. “I researched you. Every time, before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”

John closed his eyes. “No. Stop it. I won’t believe that, and I never will.” He started to walk towards the entrance, wishing that everyone would just go away so he could change and fly up to his husband, pull him away from the edge.

Sherlock’s voice took on an edge of panic as he cried, “No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move!”

John stopped and backed up, hand held up in appeasement. His wedding band caught the light and glinted. “All right. All right, sorry.”

Near frantic now, knowing the sniper would be aiming, that his finger might already be on the trigger, Sherlock reached out himself. He let his panic seep into his voice as he begged John, “Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?” John had to _see_ him fall, as cruel as it was, to make him believe, to make his grief real, to keep him safe.

“Do what?”

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”

John started shaking his head again, pulling the phone away from his ear for a moment as he started to understand what Sherlock was intending to do. “Leave a note when?” he asked, stupidly, hoping that he’d read this wrong, that Sherlock wasn’t⎯

“Goodbye, John.”

“No. Don’t.” John froze in place, panic and fear and sheer, absolute terror flooding his system as he locked eyes with his husband, begging him with his entire body not to do this.

Sherlock looked down at him for a long moment ( _it’s the last time, so much to say, no time no time_ ), then dropped his phone behind him and looked straight ahead, lowering his eyes at Mother.

John dropped his own phone from his ear and screamed Sherlock’s name even as Sherlock hesitated, then spread his arms and fell forward, plummeting to the ground. 

John was rooted to the spot, unable to force his muscles to move. He watched in utter horror as his husband, coat rippling around him, fell to the earth. 

John held his breath, waiting for Sherlock to change and fly away.

But he kept falling, coat flapping like grotesque wings and then...and then…

 

John would never forget the sound of his husband’s body ( _that’s all it is now, just a body_ ) slapping onto the concrete.

John would never forget how Sherlock’s eyes ( _still open, still open, God, they were still so piercing_ ) seemed to look right through him as they rolled him over.

John would never forget the smell of his husband’s blood as it coated his scarf ( _God, how would he ever get that out of Sherlock’s scarf and coat?_ ) and ran down his forehead.

John would never forget not feeling the bird-fast pulse under his fingertips ( _he’s still warm, he has to be in there, somewhere, he has to oh Sherlock oh God no no no nonono_ ) as he reached out and held on to his husband’s wrist.

But most of all, John would never forget the absolute terror and terrible emptiness he’d felt when Sherlock landed and half of his soul was abruptly torn from his body. It felt as if ice had been poured into him, spreading itself out to insinuate itself in all of the cracks and crevices of his body. Sherlock had told him, after John had come back from the dead himself, that when John had been gone, he’d felt as if he’d never be warm again, and John understood, now, wholly, what Sherlock had meant.

His heart was sluggish and heavy in his chest and his soul was screaming in agony as he managed to stand up and watch as they wheeled Sherlock away. He wondered, vaguely, where Mum was, and if he should tell her, or if she already knew. As he forced his feet to move, to follow his husband’s body into the hospital, he wondered, vaguely, how much longer he could stand the agony of being torn in two.

 

part xxv


	25. Interlude--The Aftermath

_\+ 15 minutes_

John was stood next to another doctor, nodding as she told him, ever so gently, that Sherlock was dead. He felt her gentle grip on his arm, but ignored it. He already knew⎯he’d seen him fall, felt the lack of pulse under that grotesquely still-warm flesh.

But still, it was protocol.

He looked up at the doctor, really seeing her for the first time.

“I want to see him.” His throat was sore, his lips dry and cracked.

“Doctor Watson, let us get him…”

“Now. I want to see him now.” He licked his lips. “Please.”

Her eyes flicked down, and then she nodded. 

 

_\+ 21 minutes_

He looked so much smaller, somehow, lying on the gurney. They hadn’t undressed him yet, but his shirt was torn from where they’d cut it open. His coat and scarf were tossed carelessly over the chair. The white sheet that John had had to pull away from his face set off the pallor of his skin far too well. 

He was cold now, but John kissed him anyway. He didn’t hold his breath for a miracle⎯Sherlock wasn’t just sleeping, waiting for a kiss to wake him. He was…dead.

Dead.

John clutched at Sherlock’s sleeve as he leaned over and finally retched, splattering bile on the spotless tile floor. He dropped into a crouch, still clinging to Sherlock’s shirt, pressing his free hand to his mouth, his eyes, as he let loose the wrenching cry of anguish that had been locked in his chest since Sherlock fell and didn’t change.

 

_\+ 28 minutes_

There were loud footsteps clattering down the hall. John’s knees creaked as he shifted his weight, still in his crouch, still clamping one hand tightly over his mouth in a vain attempt to keep himself from howling his grief.

“I’m an Inspector at the Yard, I’m his _friend_ , goddammit, let me through!”   
Lestrade shoved the door open and froze at the scene in front of him.

“Jesus,” Lestrade breathed. He moved then, suddenly, and without faltering as he strode over to the bed and hauled John up, pressing the smaller man into his chest and holding him close. John moved his free hand from his mouth to Lestrade’s back, clawing into his jacket and letting the fabric muffle his sobs. 

Lestrade reached down and gently brushed his hand across Sherlock’s forehead, down a cheek. His hand was shaking as he gripped Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment. Turning his attention to John, he started rocking back and forth gently, murmuring, “I’m so sorry, John” over and over until John started to quiet and sagged against him.

He brushed a dry, quick kiss over John’s hair and said, “I’ll take care of getting his things for you. Let’s get you cleaned up and home, yeah?”

“But Mycroft⎯” John straightened a little, pulled his mouth away from Lestrade’s jacket. “Mycroft needs to know.”

“He knows,” Lestrade said gently. “He’s on his way.”

“Don’t want him to see him like this.”

“Okay.” Lestrade nodded at the nurse who had appeared in the doorway. “I’ll have the staff hold him off until they’ve got him cleaned up. Okay?”

John nodded, pulling away completely from Lestrade, finally letting go of Sherlock’s sleeve. He scrubbed one hand across his eyes before he huffed out his breath. “I want his coat and scarf now, though.” Lestrade nodded.

John faced the opposite wall for a moment longer, then pulled his back and shoulders almost painfully taut as he executed a military-precise spin and kissed Sherlock again. “Soon, love,” he whispered as he stood up and brushed his hand over the matted curls. He nodded briskly and then scooped up the coat and scarf, clutching them tightly as he left the small room.

He didn’t look back.

 

_\+ 70 minutes_

“Where is John now?”

“At Baker Street. I got him situated on the sofa, gave him a good shot of whisky. I searched the place, took his gun for safekeeping. There weren’t any kind of pills I could find. When I left, he was just lying there with Sherlock’s coat and scarf pressed up to his nose. Mrs Hudson said she’d keep an eye on him.”

Mycroft nodded, eyes still slightly wet. Greg’s heart broke again. “I’m so sorry, love,” he said, hating that that was the only thing he could say. 

“I know. I’m sorry, too. He was your friend.”

They sat, pressed together from thigh to shoulder, and watched the fire die down. Neither of them spoke for over three hours, each lost in his thoughts.

Greg shifted first, placing his glass on the small table. He stayed there, elbows on his knees, as he said, “Moriarty’s body was not recovered. Eyewitnesses said they saw a man matching his description up there, and they heard a gunshot. But there was no body, no blood.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “My team found trace evidence of a sniper in one of the buildings opposite Bart’s. No powder residue, so there was not a shot fired. They’re finalising their results, but a preliminary search pulled up one Sebastian Moran. Ex-military, top of his class in sniper training.”

“And Moriarty?”

Mycroft’s teeth gleamed in the dying light. “We’ll find him. We’ll find all of them.”

“And John?”

“John will be kept safe. It’s what Sherlock would have wanted.”

“He’ll want to help.”

“I am aware. I⎯” Mycroft cut himself off. His mobile had buzzed. He opened the message and read it, eyes growing wide. “There was a recording.”

Greg sat up straight. “Of what?”

“Apparently, Ms. Hooper found a recorder in the morgue. It is Sherlock’s last words, his conversation with Moriarty, his goodbye⎯” His throat, inexplicably, closed off. Greg gently took the mobile from him, turned it off, and pulled him in close.

“Tomorrow, yeah?”

“Tomorrow,” Mycroft agreed, and released a shuddering breath, finally allowing himself to cry.

 

_\+ 458 minutes_

John sat up, dislodging Sherlock’s coat and scarf. 

So. That was what almost 8 hours without Sherlock was like. Right.

He’d missed lunch and, after a glance at the clock, tea. He swung his legs over until his feet were on the floor, but he didn’t want to risk standing just yet.

He felt desiccated, as if he’d cried so much all of the salt that dried onto his skin had sucked all of the life from him. He cleared his throat, then shifted the coat and scarf reverently to one side. He balled up his fists and then stood up, willing his shaky legs to hold him as he stumbled into the kitchen. Now that he was awake, all of the cold, empty parts of him were screaming again, making him ache in places he’d not known could ache⎯places deep inside that no one but Sherlock had ever known. 

Food was not an option⎯John knew it would come right back up again, even if it did taste like anything other than ashes in his mouth. He poured himself a glass of water, drank it in three gulps, and then noticed the whisky on the counter. He debated for a moment, thinking of Harry and how easy it would be to just slip into a bottle and never come back out. He held the bottle in his hand for a minute before he poured himself one shot and then resolutely dumped the bottle out in the sink.

He took his shot back over to the sofa and sat back down, sipping at it while he stared at the bloodstain on Sherlock’s scarf. He’d have to get that clean before too long⎯Sherlock wouldn’t have any compunction about wearing it, bloodstain or no. He caught himself, running back over what he’d just thought. He’d have to get used to referring to Sherlock in the past tense, now.

He threw the glass across the room, but instead of shattering into a million pieces, it merely bumped off of his chair and rolled to the floor, completely intact.

Unlike him.

John dropped his face into his hands, feeling his eyes burn with unformed tears. Apparently, there was a limit to how many tears the body could produce before they no longer formed. Sherlock would have been fascinated.

There. That wasn’t so hard.

He dropped his hands and let out his breath in a carefully controlled exhale.

Fifteen minutes later, John realised he’d been staring at the door ever since he’d dropped his hands, waiting for Sherlock to come sauntering in and tell him how he’d accomplished this magic trick.

Four hours later, he was still waiting.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I suck. I apologize for the long delay--I had a crisis of writing confidence that pretty much killed my will to write for a while. But, I'm back, and I want to say thank you for reading, commenting, kudosing, and reccing this little story--it means so much to me. :)

Sherlock hadn’t known it would be like this. Even with Molly’s help with rigging the monitors, the help Mother had given him in making himself appear to be a corpse while still so, so alive and _aware_ , he hadn’t anticipated it hurting like this.

Every cell of his body felt as if it had been bruised. Every cell in his heart, every part of his soul was screaming at him to _move, get up and move and comfort him_ as John clung to his shirtsleeve and screamed like a gutted animal.

When Lestrade came and took John away, Sherlock let one tear slip free as he waited for Mycroft to arrive. His brother exhaled once, loudly, through his nose, and then gently brushed one hand over Sherlock’s curls before he turned nearly as sharply as John had and left. Sherlock’s mind whirled with the implications of John’s raw, animalistic grief and Mycroft’s sombre, but loving touch as he waited for Molly to come retrieve him. 

When she entered the room five minutes after Mycroft’s departure, looking even smaller and mousier than he’d ever seen her, she handed him a bag of replacement clothes and turned her back.

“I’ll take you to mine,” she said as he buckled the belt. “You can recover there for a few days. Hope you’re not allergic to cats.”

“No.”

“Good. Right.” She peeked over her shoulder to see him tugging at the slightly too-short sleeves of his shirt. Without another word, she strode out of the room, down the back hallways that Sherlock learnt in his first few weeks at Bart’s, out to her car. She opened the door a bit more viciously than Sherlock expected, and the drive to her flat was silent. It was strange, sitting next to this silent, tight-lipped Molly, when she normally filled the silence with her nervous chatter. Sherlock’s teeth were on edge, his fingertips tingling from worrying the denim of his borrowed jeans.

Molly’s flat was as expected⎯clean and practical with a few hints of homely comfort. Toby rubbed against his legs once in welcome before wandering off to his food dish. Sherlock turned to look at Molly, and was met with a sharp, stinging slap that rocked him on his heels.

“John doesn’t deserve you,” Molly spat as Sherlock gaped at her in stunned silence, one hand on his red cheek. “You’re going to kill him with this.”

“I know.”

Molly’s eyes lost a little of their anger as Sherlock’s shoulders slumped. “You can stay here for a few days. The fridge is full, I put some extra clothes for you in the wardrobe. My laptop’s just there⎯” she nodded at the coffee table⎯“and Toby gets a scoop of food twice a day. The food’s under the sink. I’ll be back on Friday⎯you should be gone by then.” She lifted her chin and met his eyes. “I’ll keep your secret, even if it kills me. I’ll help how and when I can. Just.” She bit her lip. “Just ask.”

“Molly⎯”

Molly turned and grabbed the suitcase she’d left by the door. She kept one hand on the door knob, but turned to speak over her shoulder. “I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes,” she said, voice only slightly shaking. She opened the door and walked out, head high, refusing to allow her steps to waver.

 

Sherlock sank down on the couch and rubbed at the empty place in his chest where John should be. Toby jumped up and curled up on his lap, butting his head against Sherlock’s hand in a silent demand for pets. Sherlock’s hand absently stroked between the ginger cat’s ears as he tried, in vain, to slow his racing thoughts long enough to come up with a plan.

 

At some point, Mycroft and Greg had staggered to bed, pausing only to wash off the salt that dried on their faces. Greg fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, but Mycroft sat up against the headboard, wide awake, one hand gently resting on Gregory’s side just to feel him breathe.

Greg sat straight up in bed after only two hours, gasping. Mycroft looked at him in concern.

“Your mum,” Greg said breathlessly. “We need to tell your mum what happened.”

“She would have known the instant it happened. She always does.”

Greg swallowed thickly. “Did you⎯did you know, the same way?”

“I did.”

Strong arms pulled him close as Greg ran a hand through Mycroft’s hair to rest it on his nape. “God, I can’t imagine.”

“I’m glad you can’t.” Mycroft paused, then sat back, disengaging from the hug to clasp Greg’s hand and run his thumb over the back of his fingers. “It’s rare that Sherlock dies before I do, but it never stops the ache of it. I do a great deal to keep Sherlock alive and well, even if it ends up being at the expense of my own health and life.”

“Does he know?”

“Yes. The few times he’s died before me was simply because he was trying to protect me.”

“Christ. You can’t say that he doesn’t love you, nor that you don’t love him.”

“I’ve never said that, and neither has he.” Mycroft retorted. “But he resents that I sacrifice so much for him, even though it keeps him safe.”

They sat and watched each other for long moments before Greg wordlessly tugged Mycroft down and situated him to lie along Greg’s side, head pillowed on his chest. “We should see John tomorrow. And your mother. Make arrangements and all that.”

“Yes, we should.”

Greg leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Mycroft’s head. “Try to sleep, love. I’ll stand watch for a while.”

 

John was pale and unshaven when they arrived the next morning at Baker Street. When the door opened, John jumped up, face alight, until he realised who it was and sank back down, closing himself off as he dropped his face into his hands. Greg glanced at Mycroft, who wandered into the kitchen in search of the kettle while Greg went and sat next to John.

“John, mate, we need to⎯” John looked up and over at him, eyes haunted and bloodshot. Greg stopped and swallowed, jaw tight, before he plowed through the rest of his sentence. “We need to make arrangements for the funeral. Did Sherlock, did he tell you what he wanted?”

John scoffed. “He never said. We never thought this would happen, that one of us would go without the other.”

“Okay.” Greg glanced at Mycroft, who was holding out a cup of water. “Let’s get this in you and then get you ready.”

John took the cup and drank mechanically. Mycroft cleared his throat, looking a bit awkward as he fidgeted with his now-empty hands. “I’ll have some tea in a bit.”

“Ta,” John said softly, bushing aside Greg’s help as he stood up and headed towards the bathroom.

When he emerged fifteen minutes later, showered and dressed, Greg and Mycroft were in the kitchen dropping tea bags (Sherlock had used the last of their loose tea in an experiment four days ago and John had been too lazy to go out and get more when they had perfectly serviceable tea bags in) into three chipped mugs. John smiled briefly at the expression on Mycroft’s face when he dropped his tea bag into a mug. Greg caught his eye and grinned back, adding an eyeroll.

It felt…wrong to be mocking Mycroft’s distaste without Sherlock there to tease his brother more vocally. John reached out and took his mug, mustering a thankful smile for Mycroft that probably looked more like a grimace. 

They retired to the sitting room, where they drank their tea in silence. John only sipped at his, dread settling in his chest and stomach when he thought about having to talk to someone else about Sherlock, about what kind of gravestone, coffin, music. His chest locked tight and he heaved, spitting up the small amount of tea he’d drunk into a bin that Greg miraculously got under his mouth just in time. “Thanks,” John mumbled, chest still heaving as panic set in. 

Suddenly, Mycroft was crouched in front of him, hands gently covering his own. “John, you don’t have to go. Not if it’s too much.”

“No,” John muttered, “No, I have to go. He planned mine⎯I need to do the same for him.”

“Very well. Do you want a moment?”

“No. I’m fine. Let’s go before I lose my nerve.”

 

John’s voice was firm as he spoke to the funeral director. His hands were steady clear up until they got to the point of choosing a casket, and then he looked at Mycroft pleadingly as he shook violently. Greg steered him to a chair and sat with him while Mycroft pulled the director aside and spoke to him quietly and quickly. The director nodded, and after a brief squeeze of John’s shoulder and a shake of Greg’s and Mycroft’s hands, disappeared. Mycroft nodded at Greg, who helped John stand, keeping his hand locked on John’s elbow as they went back to the car.

John shrunk back into himself once they were on their way. He refused to look at either of them, and said nothing until the car glided to a stop outside Baker Street. 

“You can stay with us, if you like,” Greg offered.

“It would be no trouble. In fact, I do wish you would,” Mycroft added.

John stared at them, blinking rapidly before he replied, “Thank you, but no. I’d like…I’d like to be alone.” He glanced up at them, smiled tightly, and then got out of the car, banging his fist on the car’s roof as he shut the door. Greg watched him out the window until they turned the corner. He and Mycroft exchanged a glance before Mycroft said, softly, “We need to keep an eye on him. I’m afraid that this business with Moriarty and Euryale is not yet over. And grief, especially among bonded pairs, is dangerous to say the least.”

“You don’t think…”

“He very well may. Sherlock would have, if John had not been returned to him.”

“Christ.” Greg looked out the window, eyes unfocused as London flew by them.

“I’ll ask Mummy to watch over him. She can alert us if anything…untoward happens. I’ll have an ambulance on standby for him, just in case.”

“You really think he will?”

“It’s happened once before, long ago. Sherlock and Moriarty had been playing a game of cat and mouse all over the Continent, and John thought Sherlock to be dead to keep him safe. I knew Sherlock was alive, and had been assisting him in his endeavours. John became neglectful of himself in his grief, and of course, as he was not part of the family at the time, there was little I could do. I’d not been formally introduced to him⎯he had no idea who I was. By the time one of my people knew how dire his situation had become, John was dead. I had to inform Sherlock, who, upon hearing the news, threw himself with such vigour into catching Moriarty that he died in the attempt. That was one of the few times he died before I did.”

Greg was staring at him, incredulous. “You don’t think that Sherlock’s doing the same thing, now, do you? Going into hiding to hunt down the rest of Moriarty’s crew?”

“No. No, he is most certainly dead.” Mycroft pressed a hand over his heart. “I would know if he was alive⎯I would feel it. John would feel it.”

“Damn.”

Mycroft gave him a tight smile. “Indeed.”

 

Mrs. Hudson came up a few hours after he returned home from the funeral director’s office. She entered their sitting room with a faint “Oooh-ooh” and held out an envelope. John stared at her for a moment before it registered that he should take it from her and reached out slowly, his damned, traitorous left hand trembling slightly.

“It was under the door knocker, dear. I heard someone knock, but when I got to the door, they were gone. All there was was this.”

John turned the padded envelope over in his hands, inspecting it. There was no writing other than a simple JOHN WATSON written in unfamiliar block capitals on the outside. Whatever was inside was too slight to be felt through the padding. John cleared his throat and looked up at Mrs. Hudson, who was watching him with watery eyes. “Thank you,” John rasped.

“I’ll just go make us a cuppa. Come down whenever you’re ready, dear.” She reached out and touched his shoulder lightly, patting it twice before she turned and trotted off down the stairs.

John waited until her footsteps were no longer audible before steeling himself and ripping open the envelope. He had a sinking feeling that he knew what was inside; Sherlock had told him Mycroft had returned the feather he’d given John, the one that had been in his pocket the day he was stabbed. He hesitated for a moment when the envelope was open, and then turned it upside down, shaking the contents out into his palm.

It was his feather, the feather he’d plucked the first time he changed and the one he’d given to Sherlock to seal their bond. John brushed his fingers ever so gently along the vane as Sherlock had done so many times before. He allowed himself precisely three minutes to cry, and then he steeled himself to put the feather in his pocket, right against his heart, to wipe his eyes, and to go down and have tea with his landlady.

He let Mrs. Hudson’s voice wash over him, not really paying attention to the actual words. He nodded and replied in all the right places, and when his cup was empty, he placed it carefully on his saucer, set it gently in her sink, thanked her for the tea, and told her not to worry⎯he was going out for a bit. She nodded and told him to be careful.

Once he was outside, he headed straight for Regents’ Park, disappearing in a small copse of trees to change. He flew as fast as he could, heading straight for Mum’s home, where he had woken so long ago, confused and lost and still human. When he arrived, he was unsurprised to see Mum standing there, watching him with eyes that were both full of pity and love. He changed back, striding towards her angrily.

“Where is he?”

“John⎯”

“Where. Is. He? I know he’s here. He has to be here.”

“He is not here.”

“Then where is he? Where is my husband?”

She reached out to touch him, but he took a deliberate step back. The Morrighan sighed and said, “He’s gone, John. He’s somewhere even I cannot reach.”

“Bring him back!” John roared. “He needs me, and I need him.” He let hot, angry tears run down his face, completely ignoring them as they soaked his collar. John reached into his pocket and brandished the feather at the Morrighan. “Sherlock never would have given this up. He told me that you returned the feather he’d given me and then you brought me back. So, bring him back.”

“I cannot.”

“You can!” John yelled. “You can! You brought me back because he needed me. I need him⎯bring him back to me.” 

“John⎯” this time, she managed to get hold of him and pulled him close, letting his tears stain her cloak. “You were still human, and I could bring you back because I changed who you are. Once you die in this form, you have to wait to be reborn. I cannot change that. No one can.”

John clung to her, still clutching the feather in his fist. “It hurts,” he whispered. “I’m missing half of myself and it hurts even more than the last time.”

“I know, child. I am so sorry.”

“Can I see him? Can you at least let me see him one more time?” He pulled his head back, eyes scanning her face in hope.

“He’s gone beyond where I can go, John. There is nothing I can do.” 

“How long do I have to wait?”

“You will not see him until you meet again in your next life.”

John’s face crumpled as he sobbed. He had hoped and wished that even if she could not bring Sherlock back, at least she could let him see his bondmate one last time. When he could get his eyes to focus again, he realised that she was crying too, albeit silently.

“He’s your son,” John said when he had calmed a bit. “Doesn’t that make a difference?”

“You are my son, too, John. I will do anything in my power to keep you both happy and together, but this goes beyond what I can do.” She tilted her head at him, looking eerily like Sherlock for a moment, before she added, softly, “I miss him too.”

John wouldn’t meet her eye as he changed, wordlessly, and flew away without looking back.

If he wouldn’t see Sherlock until they both died, then he would ensure that happened sooner rather than later. John had no idea how Sherlock had lasted two weeks without him⎯if his pain had been even a tenth of what John was feeling (was it worse now that they both were bonded instead of it being one-sided?)⎯John felt as if his soul had been torn in two and his half was screaming for its mate.

But first, he would wait and give Sherlock a chance to work his magic. One more miracle⎯that was all he wanted.

 

TBC


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I suck. I have nothing to say except I'm sorry that this took so long, and that I will do my best to have more regular updates. My muses fled, and with them went my writing mojo.
> 
> I will say that I will finish this story, so I promise that it will not be abandoned. It just might take a while for updates.
> 
> Thank you, truly, for reading and for sticking around. It means the world to me.

Three weeks after Sherlock’s funeral, John was heartsick and so _tired_ of everything inside feeling as if it had been wrung out and twisted again until there was nothing left to squeeze from him. But Mrs Hudson, bless her, had kept a close eye on him (and if John had bothered to look, he would have noticed the ravens perched outside his windows, keeping a close eye on him) and refused to leave him be, no matter how much he shouted and sulked at her when she came up with supper or tea and flicked on the telly, filling the flat with noise for at least an hour every day.

She said nothing in rebuke for his outbursts, and when he showed up at her door during the second week with a guilty look and a plate of only slightly burnt scones, she opened her door and let him in, and ate the scones without teasing him for the burnt edges.

But it took a great of convincing for her to get him to go to Sherlock’s grave with her. She hadn’t wanted to go alone, and she thought that perhaps going to pay respects with someone else would make it easier for John to start healing. 

And she missed her dear boy, who had been like a son to her, and she missed her other dear boy’s easy smile. So Martha Hudson put on Sherlock’s favourite of her outfits, gathered up the bouquet she’d bought that morning, and marched up the stairs, steeling herself before she knocked on their sitting room door.

“Oooh oooh!” she called, forcing a bit of her usual cheer into her voice as she swung the door open. 

John didn’t even look up at her. The poor boy’s feet were bare, pressed sole to sole, but at least he was dressed. He was staring straight ahead at Sherlock’s empty chair, eyes blank and unseeing. She stepped around until she was in his peripheral vision, and he jumped a bit when she reached out and touched his arm.

“John, dear,” she said, patting his forearm, “I’m going out for a bit, and I’d like some company.”

John blinked at her, then seemed to come back into himself as he gave her a wan smile. “’Fraid I’m not much for company, today. Sorry.”

Mrs Hudson pursed her lips briefly, standing up straight before she reached out and grabbed John’s hand, tugging him up with a reserve of hidden strength she’d nearly forgot she could summon.

“John Hamish Watson⎯don’t give me that look, dearie, your middle name is on your lease⎯I will not let you sit here in this house and fester. Sherlock would be absolutely furious with me if he knew I’d let you just fade away. His mother and Mycroft would be even more so. Now, you will go put your shoes on and we will be leaving here shortly.” She let him go and fought back a smile as he gaped at her, and then started spluttering protests. She blithely ignored him, casting about the room for his shoes and socks, which she thrust at him. When he refused to take them, still spluttering, she stared him down until he sat down and tied his shoes. She nodded in approval and held out her hand, smiling at him when he took it and looped it through his elbow. 

It wasn’t until they were safely ensconced in a taxi that John said, “I’ve never seen you quite like that before.”

“Sherlock taught me a few tricks, and I learned some of my own. You had to, dealing with him.”

She and John shared a quick, sad smile before John sobered and went quiet again. She reached over and patted his hand, keeping it there when he gently trapped her fingers with his own. 

“You’ve met Sherlock’s mum?” John asked, almost casually. 

The abrupt thrust of that unexpected question made Martha blink. “Yes. When…when you were…gone. She came by and asked if I would make sure Sherlock didn’t do anything rash, and I agreed.”

“You…looked after him?”

“Well, of course! I loved him, just as much as I love you. You two are like the children I never had. I made sure he got out of the house, that he was eating, sleeping. Much like I’ve been doing for you. And when you came back, he came down and thanked me for making sure he was still there when you returned to him. And I intend to do the same for you.”

John was staring at her. “Mrs Hudson, he’s not coming back.”

“You did.”

“I⎯”

“I know more than you think, young man. I went to your funeral, John, just as I went to his. I went and put flowers on your grave, just like I’m doing for him. And I know that one day, he’ll be caterwauling upstairs on that violin of his when I come home from doing the shopping, and I’ll be so glad that you’ll be there to hear it. And that’s that.” She looked out the window, carefully avoiding John’s astonished gaze.

“Do you know what we are?”

She nodded. 

“How?”

“That’s not a tale for right now, dearie.” She looked back at him and squeezed his hand firmly. “I will tell you, soon.”

 

When they arrived at the cemetery, John blew out his breath as he swung the cab door shut. He rolled his shoulders and then walked calmly around the car to let Mrs Hudson take his arm. They walked slowly to Sherlock’s grave, staring down at the sober black granite printed only with Sherlock’s name. Mrs Hudson set down her flowers, fussing with them so they were arranged just so, and then stepped back, sniffling. She dabbed at her eyes with her hanky and then patted his shoulder distractedly as she murmured her excuses and shuffled off to leave him in privacy.

He sighed loudly, eyes stinging in the cold, and looked straight out over the cold stone, refusing to acknowledge the fact that it was Sherlock’s name carved just a few scant feet below his eyes. 

“We promised each other _always_. Neither one of us has done a good job of keeping that promise, have we?” His chuckle was forced and dry, tearing itself from his throat. “I don’t know how you lived, Sherlock, while I was dead. I talked to Mum, and she said I’d have to wait to see you in our next life. I can’t make you wait that long, love.” He glanced over his shoulder to see Mrs Hudson getting back in the taxi. He reached out and touched the cold stone, looking down at the gold letters that looked dull in the weak grey light. “I can’t make myself wait that long. I just want my miracle, love. Just one more miracle, for me, Sherlock. Don’t be…dead. Just please, do that for me.” He held his breath and waited for some sign that Mum had been wrong, that Mycroft and Greg had been wrong, that the screaming cold empty place in his heart was _wrong_.

They were right. 

His shoulders slumped as he let go of the stone. “I’ll see you soon,” he whispered as he executed a military-precise turn and marched back to the waiting cab, sliding in next to Mrs Hudson as the cab slunk back to Baker Street. 

 

Off to one side, standing just out of sight of his grave (and didn’t that just send a shiver down Sherlock’s spine), Sherlock nervously groomed his chest feathers before he shook himself and shifted his feet on the branch he clung to, waiting for John to turn and look at him, to see if John’s eyes would light up as he ran over. But John didn’t see him, didn’t feel his presence, and Sherlock breathed out a croaky cry of relief (that John would be safe as he didn’t feel Sherlock even when they were only metres apart) and utter, lonely grief that he could not go comfort his husband. He ruffled his feathers one more time, then alighted briefly on the gravestone directly opposite his, staring at his name standing out in stark relief for a long moment before he took off.

There was a lot to do, after all, and he needed to come back before John did something so very….John-like.

 

The ride home was silent, with each of them lost in thought as London slid by them. But when they arrived just outside Speedy’s and were inside their shared front door, John caught Mrs Hudson’s sleeve before she could scurry into her own flat. “Come up for a cuppa?” he asked, voice shakier than he’d like.

Mrs Hudson’s eyes searched his for a moment before she nodded. “Just let me drop my things and grab some nibbles, yes?”

John nodded and let her go, unwilling to move until her door shut with a quiet but firm click. It took him almost a full minute to gather the energy and the will to get up the stairs and into his flat (there, see, it wasn’t so hard to say his instead of theirs, now was it?) and turn on the tap to fill the kettle. His gaze flicked over the piles of Sherlock’s things that still littered nearly every flat surface in the kitchen and the sitting room, except for where he’d staked off little islands of his own, which suddenly seemed too clean and empty in the grey light filtering in from the sitting room.

Mrs Hudson’s humming broke his reverie as she bumped the door shut with a practiced elbow, balancing a tray of finger sandwiches and biscuits in her arms. She set it down on top of a pile of Sherlock’s notes and reached around him to turn off the tap and took the overflowing kettle from his unresisting grip. She sat it on its stand and flicked it on to boil before she started to fuss with the tray she’d brought, finally picking it up and bringing it through to the sitting room. She returned to the kitchen long enough to pat his arm and request two mugs, which he pulled down automatically, looking surprised when she filled the ceramic mug with boiling water and added a teabag to each, pressing one mug into his hand. 

“Here we are then, dear,” she said as she nudged him toward his armchair. He blinked and moved, nearly tripping over his feet as she herded him into the room.

He sat heavily in his chair, miraculously managing to keep all of his slowly darkening tea in his mug. Mrs Hudson perched on the edge of Sherlock’s chair and held her mug between her hands, balancing it carefully on her knees. She took a deep breath and said, “I know what you and Sherlock are.”

John stared at her. “What? You⎯you know? How? When?”

“His mother came around after you died, and asked me to look after him, as I said earlier. That was the first time I met her. The second time must have been the day you came back. She showed up at my window, just tapping away on it with her beak, and when I finally got fed up enough to open the window to shoo her away, she flew right in and turned into a person, right there in my kitchen! Imagine! I dropped my favorite teacup, snapped the handle clean off.”

John flashed a smile at her. “I nearly had a heart attack the first time Sherlock changed from a raven to his human form.”

“I can believe that, after seeing her do it.” She took a sip of her tea. “After I’d quite recovered, she sat down⎯without so much as a by-your-leave⎯and explained to me that she’d brought you back to life, that Sherlock, and now you, were like her, and that I shouldn’t ever tell anyone of who you two really were. A promise I’ve kept, mind you.” She looked up at him, pinning him with her gaze. “Didn’t you wonder why I’d not seemed so shocked when I came up the next morning with the papers?”

“I thought perhaps they’d not had a funeral,” John shrugged a bit. “I thought Sherlock had told you I was at a conference, or at Harry’s, visiting. I never even suspected that you knew.”

“Well, I did. And she told me one other thing, too. She told me to keep watch for anyone suspicious hanging around outside, and if I saw something, to tell either one of you, or to put my red watering can in my window planter, and she’d take care of it. I’ve not had cause to do either of those things.

“And just the other day, she came by one more time, just for a moment, to ask me to look after you, the same way I did for Sherlock when you were gone. She looked tired, even a little bedraggled, if I must say.”

John leaned forward a little in his chair. “Did she tell you who she really was?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And what, dear? Sure, it would have been hard to believe her if she hadn’t changed right in front of my eyes. But I trust her, if that’s what you’re wanting to know.”

“Mrs Hudson, you really don’t have to keep watch over me. I appreciate the gesture, but truly, I’ll be fine.”

She stood up and patted his arm kindly. “Of course you are, dear. But I’ll keep an eye on you all the same. I did tell you that you and Sherlock are like sons to me. You know that, yes?”

John reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. “Yes,” he whispered, “I do.”

She left her hand in his, returning the gentle pressure. “Can I ask you something, John?”

“Of course.”

“Can I…oh, this is so rude to ask!” 

John smiled at her, suspecting that he knew what she was about to ask for. And he was right⎯”Can I see you change into your…other form? Just so I know what you look like in case you come pecking at my window some time?” A pink flush was spreading on her cheeks as she nearly stammered out the last few words.

John let her go and shivered once, feeling his feathers spring forth. Mrs Hudson gasped, one hand pressed to her chest as her grip slackened on her empty mug. John hovered in front of her, then did a slow circuit of the room before she gained the courage to hold out her hand. He landed in her palm and nuzzled against her fingers, preening a bit as he settled down. Her eyes were wide as she stared at him, and he fidgeted under her scrutiny. After a few minutes, he took off and changed back, taking the mug from her hand. 

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“No,” John said gravely as he took their mugs and placed them gently in the sink, “thank _you_. For everything.”

Behind him, he heard Mrs Hudson take a deep breath. He braced himself to hear the thing he’d been waiting for her to say for three weeks, now. Sherlock had told him she’d asked him to promise her he’d tell her if he had thoughts of hurting himself after John had died, and he just knew that she wouldn’t leave today without saying it.

“Promise me you’ll tell me if you ever…if you ever think you’ll…” She blurted out, snapping her mouth shut so quickly her teeth clicked together.

And there it was. John’s hands gripped the sink tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. “I can’t promise you that, Mrs Hudson. You know that. Neither could he.”

“I know. But I’d hoped you could, where he couldn’t.”

He didn’t look at her as she slipped quietly out of the flat, tray of food forgotten on the sidetable next to Sherlock’s chair.


	28. Interlude--The Morrighan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er, so I am the worst person ever. I lost my drive to write, and then tonight I sat down and wrote this chapter in one go. I have some bits of the next chapter, and a more firm outline, so I will keep pecking away at this.
> 
> Also, I have a [tumblr](http://nickelsandcoats.tumblr.com/), come say hi if you like!

There were few things the Morrighan did not see. Even now, as she stood in her woods, eyes closed, listening to Mycroft’s gentle hum and straining to hear Sherlock’s too-faint burble, she could not see what, exactly, her children were planning. Mycroft had not been to visit her in weeks, and Sherlock was nearly beyond her sight. It hurt too much to listen to John, his normally vibrant baritone hum just a faint cracked whisper.

Her other children took flight, crying out their rage and their sorrow for their siblings, dark shadows against a darker night. She drew her feathered cloak around herself and forced down her tears. Now was the time to rest and regroup; now was the time to mourn before she took up her task once more.

 

She had been so young and yet so old, as was the way of the Elders, when she met Andrew Eustace Holmes. She met him by chance, having seen him when she was resting in a nearby tree while he made observations about a little thrush that had dared to come close enough to him so that the man could see every fleck of colour in its feathers. 

The man moved slowly and carefully, being sure not to touch the little bird as it hopped around digging for insects in the grass. The man had a small notebook in his hand and was scribbling notes in it as the thrush regarded him carefully with one beady eye. The Morrighan watched him, too, eyes bright as she watched the man start a sketch of the bird. She sat too long observing him⎯the fall of his dark curly hair, the breadth of his shoulders, his long legs⎯before she shook herself. Her movements caught his attention and his head whipped up, making eye contact with her. His bright blue-grey eyes were mesmerising, and she tore herself away with a harsh cry.

She went back often to the little glade near the university where she had first spotted this man, cursing herself every time for her inability to stay away. Most of the time the man was there with his notebook, watching the birds. If he saw her, he looked away quickly, as if he was afraid of her. He never approached her or her tree while she was watching, keeping a wide berth as he made his observations. Good. She was worshipped and feared by thousands! She was one of the Elders! He was right to fear and respect her. 

But as the months wore on, she found herself longing to speak with this gentle, quiet man, the one who was always alone when he came to spend time with the birds. She wanted to know what it would feel like to have him touch her feathers, to sketch her and preserve her image in his little notebook. One day, months into their acquaintance, she came to her usual tree to find him slouched on the grass, sound asleep, his notebook clutched tightly in one hand. She smiled at the image he made, hat askew and curls falling over his forehead, shirt unbuttoned one button more than was truly decent for the time. She made a decision then, spurred by some unknown, mad desire, and changed, ensuring her appearance fit the image of a young woman of this man’s social class. 

She crept away from her tree, trailing one hand down its trunk as she stepped closer to the man, her steps soundless in the grass. Her shadow fell over him as his nose twitched. She leaned over him, reaching down to shake him awake when he awoke, shooting upright with a surprised cry. The Morrighan was so startled that she fell over, toppling onto the grass in a heap of skirts. 

“Oh, goodness! I am so sorry, miss! Here, let me help you.” The young man stood, not bothering to straighten his jacket before reaching down a hand to help her to her feet. His eyes met hers and widened in shock as he held on to her hand for longer than was strictly polite. “Have we met?” he blurted out, and then instantly clapped his free hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, that was terribly rude. I am Andrew Holmes, miss, at your service. Terribly sorry about…all that.” He gestured down at the ground with a rueful, shy smile before he remembered himself and dropped her hand.

The Morrighan smiled, charmed. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she replied, “Morgan Smith, at yours.” She was quite proud of herself for not stammering through her introduction. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but⎯”

“Oh, you’re not interrupting at all!” Andrew breathed, blushing a bit. “Sorry, again.” He scratched at the back of his neck, staring at their feet.

“I am…new in town and happened upon you in my walk. I had meant to ask you for directions back into town, if it wouldn’t be a bother.”

Andrew peered at her. “New? But I thought…no, nevermind. I would delighted, Miss Smith, to be your escort.” He held out his arm and she took it, pushing down the giddy feeling that flooded her when her fingers brushed against his jacket. _I found him!_ she thought as they started heading towards the small town that had sprung up around the university. _I’ve found my one!_

 

They courted for two years before Andrew finally gathered up his courage and pressed his suit. They plighted their troth in front of Andrew’s family and the friends they had made, and Morgan Smith became Morgan Holmes. She had managed to keep her secret from Andrew for the entirety of their courtship, pretending to have let a room in a small house on the edge of town, spinning a tale of her parents’ deaths, creating a false life so she could stay near him.

She kept her secret until they moved to the outskirts of London soon after their marriage. She kept her secret well until she felt the quickening in her womb and knew that she had to tell Andrew, for his sake and their child’s. 

They were on holiday in Sussex, enjoying the summer air, when she told him of her pregnancy. He’d cried with joy and swung her about in his arms until both of them were laughing hard enough to steal their breath. She looked into his happy, glowing face, and blurted, “There’s something else.”

Andrew set her down and held her close, looking down into her eyes. “You’re her, aren’t you? The Morrighan.”

She was so shocked that she couldn’t even nod. Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she croaked, “How did you know?”

He smiled at her. “You forget, my dear, that I am a scientist. An ornithologist. I knew from the moment I met you. I’d never seen a raven with blue eyes before, and you kept coming to watch me draw the birds in that little glade.

“I was afraid I’d startle you, so I never approached you, but I saw you watching me, watching how I interacted with the birds. And then, a young woman came and startled me awake, and her eyes were the exact same as the raven’s. And I hardly ever saw the raven after I’d met you.

“And then, after we’d started to court, I had dreams. Dreams of flying, of you, as a raven, flying with me. Dreams of tall, dark trees and deep forests that stretched as far as the eye could see. I saw your wrath and your compassion. I saw you. I have always seen you.” He wiped a tear from her cheek. “I have wondered, sometimes, if I was wrong. But I did some research and observed. After all,” he whispered, “no one knows you better than I do.”

She leaned into his chest, clutching the back of his jacket. “I am sorry,” she murmured after a time, “that I did not say anything to you sooner.” She drew back a bit to look him in the eye. “And I am sorry that I underestimated you.”

“It’s quite all right. There’s nothing to forgive,” Andrew said, kissing her forehead. “Now, let’s go walk along the heath and you tell me what it’s like to fly.”

 

They had eight years of utter happiness. When Sherlock was two and Mycroft was seven, the Morrighan felt the darkness beginning to close around them. She wanted to keep Andrew from worrying, so she held her silence, but called for her children, her raven children, and charged them with keeping watch over her human family. None of them went anywhere without at least one raven perched nearby, constantly scanning the sky for an unknown threat. The Morrighan plucked one of her feathers and wrapped it in her favourite handkerchief, telling herself that she still had time to give it to Andrew, to protect him and keep him with her forever through the bond giving a feather would provide. She could ensure that they always met, that they always had their two precious sons, even if Andrew could not reciprocate their bond. 

She waited, and then it was too late. 

The Morrighan had never changed into her true form in front of Andrew. But she did, two weeks before he died. He stared at her in utter fascination, hesitantly reaching out to touch her head before he drew back. She shook her head fondly and hopped closer, nuzzling up against him. He cradled her close, stroking his hand down her back. 

“I want you to remember what I look like,” she croaked as he stroked down one wing. “So you know it’s truly me, and not an impostor.”

“What are you talking about, dear? Are there more like you?”

“Yes,” she replied, but would say no more. She was probably worrying over nothing, and there was still no sense in worrying Andrew, not with the children to worry about, too. Besides, the feeling of approaching darkness had faded in the last few days, and she had not seen any omens or portents. It was nothing, she decided, just a flight of worry after having such happiness for so long.

 

It happened when she let her guard down. She had taken Mycroft for a practice flight in her woods, and she did not hear her children scream in warning until it was too late. 

She snatched Mycroft up in her talons and flew hard for home, only to arrive to see Sherlock, covered in his father’s blood, shaking his father’s shoulder and begging him to wake up. He turned his big blue-grey eyes up to his mother as she landed and changed, Mycroft staggering to his knees beside her. She gathered her children close and screamed her rage into the night. 

At Sherlock’s feet, unnoticed by all of them, a shiny beetle twitched in glee.

 

The Morrighan raised her children as best she could without the stabilising, humanising, hand of her husband⎯ _oh, Andrew_ ⎯and the boys grew up half-wild as a result, their uncanny intellect and birdlike gestures frightening their friends and peers. She looked at them, her wild, wonderful, intelligent children, and wished that she hadn’t been so afraid to bind her soul to a human, to her One, even though she knew that Andrew would have accepted it without question, would have believed her promises to find him in every life, to give him the boys in every life. Instead, she had to force the boys into life each time, each time taking a little more from her.

She watched Sherlock find John and love him, over and over again, without bonding to him. 

She watched Mycroft find Gregory and shy away from everything he meant time and time again. 

She watched Sherlock finally be braver than she ever was and bind John to him. She watched John bind himself to her son and wept for joy. She watched as John fought to stay alive after losing his bond and wept in sorrow. 

She watched Mycroft find Gregory and finally accept what his heart had always told him. 

She watched as the world turned and the same foreboding she had felt at their first birth crept over her. She watched as Mycroft warred with himself over offering Gregory his bond, and hoped he wouldn’t make the same mistake she had. 

She watched, and she waited.


End file.
